


False Dawn

by cosmikaze



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Atonement - Freeform, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Development, Daedric Quests (Elder Scrolls), Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, Interesting NPCs Mod (Elder Scrolls), M/M, Nightcaller Temple (Elder Scrolls), Non-cardboard NPCs, Pining, Redemption, Revenge, Slow Burn, Vampire Hunters, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-14 16:55:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 62,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28798725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmikaze/pseuds/cosmikaze
Summary: A nihilistic Altmer jester gets more than he bargained for after a chance encounter in a snowy ruin turns his life of aimless wandering upside down. One hair-raising mercenary job later and he’s been swept up into a bloody revenge quest that threatens to upend everything he thought he knew about trust, redemption, and what it means to be worthy of love.
Relationships: Rumarin/Male OC
Comments: 41
Kudos: 29





	1. The Old Yorgrim Inn

**Author's Note:**

> This fic originally came to be because the character of Rumarin from Kris Takahashi's Interesting NPCs mod is such a delight and has very little confirmed backstory in canon, so I wanted to play around with how he came to be the way he is (but zero experience with the mod is required in order to enjoy this fic). Then I got carried away with the character development and now it's a 100k word slow burn/drama. This fic is just about finished and I’m posting as I edit- the whole thing will be up by the end of 04/21.
> 
> NOTE: This story doesn’t contain the LDB or much of the main storyline of Skyrim, although the Civil War is ongoing in the background. I think the only way in which this diverges from canon is that realistically in the timeline people should be talking about/dealing with the aftermath of dragons rampaging around everywhere, but none of that is included (this is what the AU- Canon Divergence tag refers to).
> 
> Violence AW and Mature rating will apply primarily in later chapters, although semi-graphic violence occurs periodically throughout (much like it does just tooling around in Skyrim...). Tagging for conservatism.

Rumarin’s knees sagged with relief as he glimpsed the outline of what looked like a hulking Nordic ruin just upslope, barely visible through the blowing snow in the twilight. He had been considering digging out a shelter into a snowdrift and attempting to wait out the blizzard. Turning off the path, he began slogging his way through the deeper snow, kicking up small piles that then blew right back into his face. 

He nearly stumbled up the stone steps, buried as they were, and sighed with relief as he passed under the arched overhang. He shook his head, sending snowflakes and condensed water droplets flying. As his vision cleared he shrugged back his cloak and drew his dagger. He knew from experience that these old ruins could harbor more than just rats and bone meal. 

Slowly he advanced, not trusting the ruin’s silence beneath the howling wind. The ruin seemed to be only a single room, empty except for two ancient stone tombs and their attendant burial urns, still apparently sealed. A few shards of pottery and worn chunks of stone were scattered about the floor. The room was empty. Rumarin let out a breath, relaxing and pulling out a torch. 

As soon as the torch flared to life with a hiss, another sound broke the still air within the crypt- one that made Rumarin’s blood run cold. A crash and a thunk sounded somewhere close to his left, followed by an identical sound to his right. “Blast!” he muttered, backing toward the entrance. 

Just then, a shadow darkened the twilight doorway. A stranger stepped out from behind the column beside the entrance, smoothly drawing a bowstring to his ear and scanning the interior of the ruin before his eyes came to rest on Rumarin.

A blue flash, and Rumarin’s ghostly blade sprang into his hand, summoned from some plane of Oblivion. Rumarin and the stranger barely had a chance to size one another up before a rattling sound followed by the shing of rusty metal being drawn from a sheath dragged Rumarin’s eyes from the man… and toward a moldering skeleton climbing out of its crypt, dust clouds still drifting from where the slab cover to its tomb had landed on the floor. The skeleton brandished a short sword, creakily advancing toward him with all the grace one would expect from somebody dead for hundreds of years.

Rumarin met the eyes of the man still standing in the doorway and jerked his head toward the other skeleton, which was shambling toward him with a dagger— _let’s deal with the bonemeal and then we can get back to the staring contest._ That seemed to be enough— the stranger aimed and loosed, knocking the skull from the neck with an arrow squarely to the cavernous eye socket. Bones, now inert, clattered to the floor followed by the crash of the rusty iron sword released from the once more lifeless grip. 

Rumarin’s conjured blade severed a bony arm and the skeleton hissed, reeling back and preparing to strike with its remaining arm. He sidestepped nimbly and plunged his blade into the skeleton’s rib cage, severing its spine and withdrawing with an evil hiss of magical energy against bone. The skeleton collapsed to the floor in a heap and did not move again. Rumarin straightened and turned back to the stranger to find he had quickly nocked and drawn again, sidling back toward the entrance and re-training his aim on Rumarin.

He took a breath, hoping the fellow wasn’t a bandit, and said brightly, “Well, that was frightening. The Nords should really consider burning their dead. Although, granted, it would make opening urns a lot more harrowing.” 

The stranger blinked, his aim slipping down a few inches. Rumarin was used to this reaction— for some reason, no one ever expected a sardonic joke. Then the stranger was asking, “Are you all right? The skeletons must have surprised you.” 

Rumarin waved a hand, relieved that the fellow did not seem to be a bandit. Still, attempting to lighten the mood might help him figure out whether sharing this shelter was a possibility or not, since he didn’t really want to fight over it. “Oh, I’m fine. But hey— you did great. That’s why you get first shot at robbing these graves.” 

The man lowered the bow completely, replacing the arrow in his quiver and stepping further into the ruin. “I’m not here to rob graves, I was just looking for a place to get in out of the snow.” 

With a twist of his hand, Rumarin banished the bound blade and spread his hands, gesturing grandly as if he owned the place. “Welcome to the Old Yorgrim Inn, grandest of accommodations between Windhelm and Solitude, beloved of traveling merchants, grave robbers, and the undead.” He dropped his hands and raised an eyebrow. “But really, though, it’s nasty out there— we could do worse.” 

The stranger stamped his boots, brushing snow from his trousers, and leaned down and dropped his pack on the stone floor. He leaned his bow against the edge of the now-empty sarcophagus and shucked off his gloves, dashing them against the wall to a rain of ice crystals before asking, “What’s your name?” 

“The name’s Rumarin. Professional adventurer, bladebinder, and grave robber. What’s yours?” 

“Blaise.”

Rumarin seated himself on a block of chipped stone that looked to have once been part of a statue. “Well, Blaise, I don’t suppose this storm will ease up before morning at this rate, so we might as well get to know each other.”

Rumarin thought he saw a shadow pass across the other man’s face at his casual proposal. Already he could tell that his usual tricks weren’t going to work well on this one. Blaise had settled onto another block of stone a few arms’ lengths from Rumarin. He had lined up an impressive array of weaponry against the wall within easy reach: steel blade, a heavy-looking crossbow, and the shortbow he had used on the skeleton. It was a beautiful thing, horn and burnished wood fused together along its curving length. Blaise noticed Rumarin looking and narrowed his eyes slightly— he shifted his gaze hastily. Boy, Blaise was on edge. And armed to the teeth. _Could he be a fugitive?_ Rumarin mused. He certainly looked haggard, as if he hadn’t slept well in weeks. His fitted dark leather armor looked well lived-in. 

“Do you have any firewood? There are a couple ruined books here. I for one have no interest in sleeping on a freezing cold slab of stone without at least a fire to ensure a fighting chance of waking up in the morning.” Rumarin set to work building a firebreak with chips of ancient stone, adding the ruined books and tinder Blaise offered up while studying the other man out of the corner of his eye. Was he a Nord? No, too slight of build— a Breton. He had dark hair, mostly tied back but pieces of it were falling into his eyes, which Rumarin noticed were a piercing shade of blue. There was a hard, hollow cast to his features. Despite that, Rumarin suspected that if he were to smile, he would spontaneously lift every skirt in a fifty mile radius. Right now, he just looked grim.

Once there was a merry little blaze dancing in the makeshift hearth, Rumarin settled back against his bound-up bedroll and tried again. “So, Blaise, what brings you to this mild, temperate neck of the woods?” 

Damn him, he didn’t even smirk. He just gazed at Rumarin steadily with those blue eyes. The shadow passed across his face again. “I’m hunting someone.” 

Rumarin raised an eyebrow. “Are you a bounty hunter?” 

Blaise started to shake his head, then stopped and seemed to reconsider. “I wouldn’t have called myself that, but perhaps, more or less.” Rumarin could tell there was more to it, but Blaise only resumed staring into the fire. Rumarin forged ahead, determined to make conversation. 

“Well, the least you could do is put me at ease that I’m not sharing a fire with the Dark Brotherhood.” He watched Blaise closely for any flicker of alertness, but instead, finally— finally! he got a slight curling of Blaise’s full lips in response. 

“No, the one I’m hunting is… let’s just say the world will be a better place once I’m done. Something was taken from me, and I’m looking to settle the score.” 

“A theft, you say?” Rumarin couldn’t help it. His curiosity was piqued. “So you’re going to get it back, whatever it is. Must be important, for you to be out in this.” 

He didn’t imagine it— Blaise actually flinched. Any trace of the small smile was gone now as he responded coldly: “No, some things are beyond recovery. This is about justice.” 

Rumarin winced slightly. That tone of voice was like icy iron. “All right, I get it— I’ll let you keep your ‘dark brooding stranger with a secret vendetta’ persona intact.” 

“You certainly have a healthy sense of humor.” 

Rumarin settled back. It didn’t seem like he could hope for fine conversation this night, so he’d have to settle for enjoying Blaise’s cheekbones and the sound of his own voice. Nothing he hadn’t done before. “It helps that I grew up amongst a nomadic troupe of troubadors, and spent every day around performers of all walks of life. Jesters, actors, magicians and bards… a wellspring of speechcraft that you couldn’t help but drink from.”

“Really?” asked Blaise, face bland but eyes betraying a spark of curiosity. 

Rumarin nodded and carried on, encouraged. “It was the jester to whom I gravitated, a Nord man named Otero.” He ignored the twinge of sadness in his gut as he spoke the name. Rest in peace, old man.

“How did that relationship develop?” Blaise’s face had relaxed again, and now he did actually look curious. 

“Well, Otero was always better with children than adults. Probably because it’s easier to make them laugh. You see, laughter was important to him. He said it was powerful enough to disarm any foe.”

“So how did you go from trouper to...?” He gestured around the crumbling ruin.

It wasn’t hard to force down the sting of painful memories. He’d had plenty of practice turning his life into a series of anecdotes. “Well, I became an adventurer the day I stopped wanting to be a jester. I was about ten years old. Otero had taken me aside one afternoon to practice his new act. It was a great routine. In fact, I was laughing so loud I attracted an audience. A group of bandits.”

Blaise’s eyebrow quirked upward. “What did you do?” 

“Well, I was terrified. But Otero rose up, looking fat and half drunk, and warned the bandits to leave, or die. The bandits started roaring with laughter. When Otero made another threat, some were reduced to tears. They never saw the blade slide out of his sleeve. I never saw a fat man act so swift...” He paused for dramatic effect: “...and that’s when I learned how disarming laughter really is.” 

Blaise chortled at that- a real expression of mirth, however brief. Fancy that. “So that’s what you’re after? To disarm me?”

Rumarin waved a hand. “Well, you certainly seem as if you could use a laugh. And you did save me from having to kill, or rather.. re-kill, one skeleton, so entertaining you is the least I can do.”

Blaise made a dismissive noise about the skeleton, but followed it up with, “Are you a Skyrim native, then?”

This brought Rumarin up short for a second. “Well, the troupe was native to Cyrodiil, but that wasn’t a great place to be thirty years ago during the Great War, so the whole time I was growing up, we were traveling around Skyrim. So, I guess you could say I am.” 

“But you weren’t born here?”

Rumarin waggled his eyebrows suggestively. “A wise old Imperial once said, it is not the circumstances of a man’s birth that define him, but the circumference of his—”

Blaise groaned as Rumarin winked cheekily. “And here I thought High Elves were supposed to be the most civilized race.” 

“I’m perfectly civilized. In fact, I was just about to offer you supper. Care for some stale bread?” 

***

Rumarin rummaged around in his cloak for whatever meager rations he had. He speared a green apple on the end of his knife and sliced it deftly in half. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Blaise studying him. “Are those mage robes?”

Rumarin looked over at Blaise and sized up his expression. His long red-gold hair slipped over his shoulder as he turned his head and he pushed it back impatiently. It seemed to be an innocent question, no fear or contempt was evident on the other man’s face. Although, he had to admit it was hard to read Blaise. Rumarin smirked. “Not quite. These are actually a cheap imitation, woven and enchanted to look like their more esteemed counterpart. The point is to convince naive patrons the enchantments were performed by a master. They are not.”

“If you know it’s a gimmick, why buy them yourself?”

Rumarin passed Blaise half an apple and a heel of bread, took a bite of his own, then gestured with it. “Well, consider the fact that bandits are twice as naive as the average customer looks. Thus, one ruse leads to another. Not that these robes are only good for conjuring a story. The enchantment is far from spectacular, but on occasion it does help me conserve magicka.” 

Blaise took a bite of the apple. “You handled that skeleton easily, so you clearly aren’t a coward or a pacifist,” he said. “If the robes are cheap, what about bound armor for protection?” He reached into his own pack for a packet of waxed paper bound with twine, and unwrapped a few strips of rabbit jerky. He handed one piece to Rumarin. 

Rumarin took the meat with a nod of thanks, and shrugged. “Unfortunately, I’m not familiar with bound armor spells, and I’ve yet to find a book on the subject in my travels across Skyrim.” 

“What are you doing out here, anyway?” Blaise tore off a strip of the jerky with his teeth. 

“Like I said, I’m an adventurer. Never could stay put in one place too long.” In fact, he had just finished up a job delivering some old family heirloom from a Whiterun Nord to her niece in Windhelm— not the most exciting contract, but she had paid well. She had had to, for him to be willing to step foot in that horrible city, he thought severely, poking at the fire with a stick. 

“You know, I heard a rumor about a suspicious possible Thalmor spy lurking around Windhelm. That couldn’t be you, could it?”

Several reactions chased through him in quick succession: Alarm, as he imagined being hauled back to Windhelm for ransom on the point of that heavy crossbow, irritation at the absolute triteness of dealing with this yet again, and then finally sheepishness when he actually looked up at Blaise’s face. Rumarin rolled his eyes. Blaise’s face was too blandly neutral for him to be serious. “What a joke— the Thalmor would probably assassinate the rumormongers for daring to associate their illustrious organization with a sload like me.” In fact, he had been chased out of town by those very rumors. It hadn’t been the first time, he thought glumly. 

“Okay, so, ‘adventurer, bladebinder, and grave robber’. Is it a lucrative line of work?”

Rumarin took a swig from a waterskin before answering, “It has its ups and downs. Honestly the best part is that I’ve amassed a truly awesome trove of drinking stories. Bit depressing that we don’t have any mead at the moment, because I’d love to tell you about the time I tricked a Nord merchant into giving me a horse for free by causing her to believe I had her under an Illusion spell without any magic at all…” 

“Well, something tells me that’s probably past its prime, so that particular story will have to wait,” said Blaise, jerking his chin at a couple ancient earthenware jugs sealed with wax.

Rumarin’s eyes widened, and he let out a delighted laugh. “You can make jokes! Bravo. Although I suspect you’d find the, er, rest of our skeleton friend in there rather than a delightful ancient Nordic vintage.” 

They ate the rest of their meal while listening to the wind howling through the cracks in the ancient stone. It was full dark now, and Rumarin had started to get nervous about the prospect that their firelight would draw unwanted attention from other denizens of the stormy night. It was clear that the storm would not abate that night, so he resigned himself to bedding down in the ruin. 

They agreed that one of them would stay awake to keep watch, and they’d switch in a few hours. It occurred to Rumarin that it wasn’t exactly normal to trust this stranger he’d only met a few hours ago for a rotating watch duty, but Blaise did seem like the stoic, honorable type, even if he had secrets of his own. The other man seemed to share Rumarin’s apprehension about unwanted attention from the road, as he got up and piled some rubble between the fire and the entrance to provide at least a little obstacle for the light, and for any late night intruders come calling. He claimed the first watch, and Rumarin didn’t object. 

“All right, but wake me if any revelers show up to join the party, be they dead or alive.” He settled into his furs and turned his back to the fire.

***

The day dawned crisp and bitingly cold. The previous night’s storm was only a memory, and the morning sky was a brilliant blue. Ice crystals sparkled on every surface, and the road below the overlook was blanketed in drifts of fresh snow that had blown across it in the night, still unsullied by footprints, horse or cart tracks. 

Rumarin stepped up beside Blaise where he stood in the entrance to the ruin’s overhang, gazing out over the frozen world as he adjusted his knapsack and heavy fur cloak in place over his shoulders. He dusted off his gloved hands and stamped his boots from where he’d been scuffing out the remains of their fire, and let out a sigh of mock contentment. “Oh, Skyrim. She can be a cruel bitch, but you have to admit she’s a looker.” 

Blaise glanced sideways at him and huffed, his breath misting in front of his face. “Where will you go now?” 

Rumarin felt oddly deflated at the prospect of parting ways so soon. He had been traveling alone for some time, and it had been more of a relief than he would have anticipated to relax and chatter aimlessly last night. “I don’t really have a specific destination in mind to be honest, but I was heading west when I got caught in the storm. Frostfall is looming, after all, and I’m too delicate to survive winter in the Pale.” He kept his voice casual. 

Blaise seemed to deliberate for a moment. “Remember last night I told you I wasn’t a bounty hunter?” 

Rumarin raised an eyebrow. “Indeed. Was that a lie?”

“No, but I do have an… operation that I could use some help with. You can fight— do you hire out? I’ll pay you.” 

Now this was a surprise. Well, he had been thinking it was nice to have some company for once. “I’ve been known to take on occasional mercenary work. What kind of operation?”

“There’s an old Imperial fort about a day’s travel up the road toward Winterhold- Fort Kastav. It’s being inhabited by an… unsavory character, you might say. I’m going to clean it out. Are you in?”

Rumarin debated for only a second. He had nothing better to do at the moment, and it was always good to make some coin. “Well! Two blades are better than one, I always say. Or, one bow and one blade. Or two bows.” 

“Indeed,” said Blaise, pulling out a paper map from somewhere inside his cloak. “We’ll have to make camp before getting there, but if the snowdrifts aren’t too deep and we keep a good pace, we should be able to make it by first thing tomorrow.”


	2. The Road to Fort Kastav

The road was rugged and empty, this part of Skyrim being relatively remote, even though they were traveling a major thoroughfare between Windhelm and Winterhold. They encountered the very occasional hold guard patrol, but that was it other than the heavily-armed noble’s retinue they passed on the way to Winterhold around midday. 

Rumarin managed to keep up a largely one-sided conversation, mainly to keep himself entertained since Blaise offered up little himself. He clearly wasn’t the best at making small talk.

“I never asked, did you grow up in this province?” He was gripped with curiosity about the enigmatic companion he had picked up accidentally. 

Blaise glanced at him. “No, I grew up in High Rock, on the Iliac Bay, in Wayrest.”

Interesting. “Ah— I had you pegged correctly. A Breton.”

“Yes.” 

“Are you a mage, then?” 

“I’ve studied magic, but I think the more descriptive term is spellsword. Mostly I keep to Destruction and Restoration magic— functional spellwork for fighting. Are you a spellcaster outside of your bladebinding?” 

Rumarin gave him a sideways glance. Here we go. “No, currently my talents are limited to summoning my weapons. The thing about learning magic is it requires studying.” He made a face.

“I don’t think I’ve ever met a non-mage Altmer before.” 

Rumarin held his face in its regular mask of casual disinterest. His complicated relationship with magic was the last thing he wanted to get into right now. “Well, now you have.” 

Blaise nodded, as if acknowledging the touchy subject. Before he could ask a followup, Rumarin turned the question on him: “What about you? Did you study formally? Come to think of it, seems like even in Skyrim, non-mage Bretons are few and far between.” 

“Every Breton child is evaluated for magical potential, so I always knew I’d be able to learn. My family is affiliated with the School of Julianos in Wayrest, but I don’t account myself a scholar. My interest in magic has always been practical, which sometimes put me at odds with the priests.” 

“There are plenty of practical uses for the other magic schools as well,” Rumarin pointed out. “Summoning various enthralled denizens of Oblivion to do your dirty work for you, for instance.” 

“I can’t abide conjurers,” Blaise said shortly. “The bladebinding doesn’t bother me,” he amended when Rumarin’s eyebrows climbed, “but the rest of that school of magic is too closely tied to necromancy and mind-bending. If there’s one sacred thing left in this world, it’s free will.” There was bitterness in his voice. 

Privately, Rumarin agreed with him. But out loud, he said “I’m guessing that means you don’t believe in fate.” 

Blaise inclined his head a little. “I think all of us regular mortals are subject to certain universal constraints— death, namely, perhaps others. Maybe only the gods and the heroes of legend aren’t. So then, I should say, if there is such a thing as fate, it’s of the gods, not of man— or mer,” he added. 

Rumarin laughed, and Blaise looked at him, startled. “I thought you said you weren’t a scholar, but here you are essentially writing some Psijic thesis while trudging up this mountain.”

“For a rogue wanderer raised by troubadors, you certainly have quite the vocabulary.”

“I’m a High Elf. We have culture.” 

“And a superiority complex, too.” 

This was damn near witty banter, Rumarin thought with satisfaction. He felt self-satisfied about the fact that the deep line between Blaise’s eyebrows had relaxed somewhat. “I never claimed to be perfect. Just pretty to look at.”

Blaise rolled his eyes. “Don’t make me regret hiring you.” 

Rumarin shrugged. “It’s too late now. Like Otero used to say, life’s a bitch, and then you die. How’s that for fate?” Blaise snorted darkly. 

They settled into silence for awhile, the only sounds being the crunch of their footsteps on the snowy cobbles and the cold wind whistling through the craggy hills. The treeline got sparser as they slowly climbed, and other than the occasional alpine scrub, only the occasional snowberry bush provided any color to the gray and white landscape. It was bitingly cold, and they both huddled deep within their cloaks. Sharp icicles dripped from the overhanging rock ledges that lined the road. 

They stopped sometime just after midday for lunch, huddled around a little fire to thaw the frozen tips of their fingers and toes. Blaise had never been this far north during his time in Skyrim, and Rumarin pointed out the native wildlife and the landmarks he knew. 

When Blaise remarked that he was impressed with Rumarin’s fluency in the local flora and fauna, he replied, “I’m no expert. I try not to spend too much time in the northeastern holds, for obvious reasons.” He vigorously rubbed his hands together over the fire to try to restore feeling. “You asked good questions yourself— are you some sort of woodsman?”

“I did a lot of hunting and ranging growing up in High Rock,” said Blaise. “I always feel most at home in the wilds.” 

“I don’t know what kind of beasties there are in High Rock, but in Skyrim, the wilds have very big teeth,” said Rumarin, looking at him askance. 

“Nature is brutal,” said Blaise. “But her cruelty is simple, unlike man’s.” 

“Traveling with you is turning out to be quite the melodrama,” Rumarin remarked, rolling his eyes. “’Nature’s cruelty is simple, unlike man’s?’ What are you, a sad monk?” 

Blaise shrugged, unconcerned with Rumarin’s ribbing, which was perhaps a good thing because he might be overdoing it. The man was his employer, after all, and they’d only just met. Really, though— the aura of doom and gloom was repressive. “I call it as I see it,” he said. “Men can be selfish and vindictive. At least nature’s violent whims aren’t personal.” 

They had started walking again. Rumarin was casting about for a witty response to dispel the seemingly constant grim cast to Blaise’s features when his companion asked, “Do you know what that is?” He was squinting up at a strange shape in the distance, rising high above the horizon of snowy mountainous landscape to the north. 

“Ah- the statue of Azura. We’ll be able to see it better soon,” said Rumarin. 

“A massive Daedric shrine, visible for miles,” mused Blaise. “The Nords really are a strange mix of liberal and intolerant.”

“Maybe they just think it looks nice. Pretty much all else there is to look at up here is snow and horkers.” 

“Or it could have something to do with the fact that the Nords worship Talos, so they turn a blind eye to Daedra worship because they know what it’s like to be persecuted,” Blaise suggested. 

Rumarin shrugged. “The persecution part is relatively recent, and that shrine has been there for who knows how long. I'm not going to argue with you about the cognitive dissonance, though. People in Skyrim certainly have the art of selective discrimination down pat. It’s like discrimination, but for people who are very stubborn.” 

Blaise glanced sideways at him. “You probably know a thing or two about that.” 

“Me? I’m more or less a Skyrim native, you remember. What could a knife-ear possibly know about discrimination in this fine country?” He grinned. 

“Point taken,” said Blaise. 

It was late afternoon, but dusk was still an hour off when Blaise stopped short and suggested they make camp. Rumarin made a small sound of protest. “We can’t be far from the fort now— wouldn’t it be better to just get this over with?”

Blaise shook his head. “Better to be fresh for a morning assault.” 

Rumarin shrugged. “Suit yourself. You’re the boss of this expedition.” 

It ended up being Rumarin who found the spot, disappearing for a few moments among a group of large snow-covered boulders and then reemerging to wave Blaise over. The space was small, really just a hollow between two large boulders, but it was far enough back from the road and well-sheltered from the wind so they could have a fire without worrying about attracting notice— not that they had seen another living soul in hours. Blaise set a few snares and quickly caught a large jackrabbit just outside their campsite for supper, and skinned and cleaned it while Rumarin stoked the fire. 

As night fell, they huddled side by side as close to the fire as they could get without singeing their furs. Their breath made heavy clouds of mist in the frigid air. The mountainside was eerily silent, except for the occasional mournful howl of an ice wolf. Those sounded far off, luckily, thought Rumarin. 

“A lonely sound,” said Blaise. 

“The loneliest,” agreed Rumarin. “Except maybe an Elven bard singing ‘The Age of Aggression’ in a Windhelm pub.”

“You’ve seen that?” asked Blaise, sounding incredulous. 

“Oh, I have. It wasn’t pretty. His voice, or his face after they were done with him.” He couldn’t keep the wry twist from his tone. 

“You didn’t intervene?” 

“I wouldn’t have been able to do anything anyway. There were too many drunk Nords, they had already been making ‘jokes’ about me being a Thalmor sympathizer, and I’m honestly more of a lover than a fighter.” He allowed his lips to twist in a sardonic smile, but kept his voice light. For some reason, the idea that Blaise might think him a coward bothered him very much. He couldn’t resist adding, “and besides, he almost deserved it, murdering the song like that. He definitely wasn’t a real bard, he was just looking for a fight.” 

Blaise stood up and walked outside the circle of firelight to scratch out a shallow depression in the hard permafrost and bury the remains of their supper. His voice drifted out of the darkness, pitched low so as not to carry far, back to where Rumarin was still seated by the fire. “I’m not surprised to hear you have strong opinions about music, being a troubadour. 

“I never said I was a troubadour, only that I traveled with them. I spent more time clowning around than studying music theory, that was for sure.”

“With… Otero, did you say his name was? Your jester?” Blaise kicked snow over the flat mound, stamped it down, and returned to the warmth of the fire. 

Rumarin felt the familiar mess of grief and guilt stirring in his stomach, while at the same time feeling mildly touched that Blaise had remembered his name. “It’s not an exaggeration to say that basically all the formal schooling I ever received— if you could call it that— was due to Otero. He was a teacher, father, and friend to me, really. I’m sure we made quite a pair, thinking back now— a fat and scruffy Nord jester and a scrawny pointy-eared elf child.”

“He sounds like a fascinating person. Where is he now?”

“I regret to say Otero passed away years ago,” said Rumarin, wondering if he would ever be able to talk about it without the familiar chest pangs. 

“I’m sorry,” said Blaise simply, and somehow it didn’t sound like a hollow platitude. Rumarin acknowledged him with a nod, and the two lapsed into silence for awhile, watching sparks from the fire dance on the updraft, carried away with the smoke into the blackness of the night.

“I’ll take first watch,” said Blaise.

Rumarin wasn’t about to argue. His whole body ached from the long day’s march in the bitter cold. He curled up in his furs beside Blaise, conscious of the other man’s hulking presence in the dark night.

*** 

As Blaise had predicted, they weren’t on the road for very long the next morning before the tower of the old fort came into view around the next bend. They pulled up short and backtracked, stepping off the road into a stand of trees, boots sinking into the deep snow. “So, what’s the plan?” asked Rumarin, easing his pack on his shoulders.

Blaise had set his knapsack down on a stump nearby and was rummaging inside. He pulled out a leather scrip that clinked softly. He straightened and looked Rumarin straight in the eye. “Before we go in there, there’s something you need to know. The creature we’re after is a vampire.” 

Reflexively, Rumarin schooled his voice to nonchalance. “Great,” he sighed, to mask the sudden chill running down his spine that had nothing to do with the frigid weather. “I suppose it was too much to hope that we’d be dealing with common bandits. Not that they would have been a walk in the park, either, the body odor is just ghastly. Still, you could have warned me, you know.” 

“It’s not a joke,” Blaise insisted grimly. Rumarin had to admit, he did look deadly serious. One wrong step, and they’d both be dead, or worse. “You’re right, I could have warned you, but in truth as soon as I saw you fell that skeleton so easily, I was hoping you’d come with me.” 

“So you shamelessly manipulated me. I’m impressed. Makes a lot more sense why you didn’t want to go in there last night,” Rumarin intoned dryly. In all honesty, he was not thrilled about the prospect of dungeon diving in a vampire’s lair. The undead made his skin crawl. Unfortunately, the prospect of bowing out and losing face in front of Blaise seemed almost as bad as the task ahead of him. 

“I didn’t lie to you. I’ll pay you well for this. Are you still willing?” Blaise raised his icy blue eyes to Rumarin’s. His face was so intent that denying him was beyond Rumarin’s power. 

Rumarin sighed, briefly weighed the possibility of a bloody death against the monotony of turning around back to Windhelm humiliated and alone in the cold and not any richer, then nodded once, grimly. “Although, I better live to spend that gold on something worthwhile.”

Blaise let out a breath and some of the tension seemed to leave him. For a second, he’d really seemed worried Rumarin was going to walk away. More than anything else, that fact gave Rumarin pause. Blaise certainly seemed more than capable of holding his own in a fight, based on the well-worn grip of his sword hilt and the confident grace with which he carried himself; what would he really need a dopey mercenary Elf for? But before he could ask more questions, Blaise spoke. “Have you ever fought a vampire before?” 

“Once,” admitted Rumarin. “It wasn’t pretty. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Stumbled into an alley in Ivarstead where one was... feeding on a drunk. I got my blade up in time and we sparred, but the bloodsucker fled as soon as the guard heard me yell. He was fast— I’m not sure what would have happened if I’d been alone.” 

Blaise nodded, seeming relieved. “Did he use any magic?” 

Rumarin shook his head. “I don’t think there was time— it all happened pretty fast.” 

“There won’t be any guards here to interrupt. Stealth will be key. That’s why we waited for morning— ideally, he’ll be sleeping. We want to take him down before he has a chance to react. I’m not sure how powerful the creature here is, but the stronger ones have all sorts of tricks to drain your life energy, enthrall you— make you worship them,” he said grimly. 

He turned to the scrip and peeled open the flap, pulling out a couple small vials and handing them to Rumarin. “These are potions of resistance to magic and disease.” He took out two more, unstoppering them and knocking them both back in quick succession. 

Rumarin guffawed, a little too loud. “Right, don’t want to end up undead!” He flicked off the wax seals and drank both. The first was cloyingly sweet, the second burned all the way down. A strange, hot, hardening sensation spread through his veins, almost like the feeling of warm candle wax drying on his skin.

Blaise hefted the heavy crossbow from his back, loading a bolt from the quiver at his waist and drawing the string into lock. He turned to Rumarin. “Vampires are very strong. The crossbow has a stronger draw weight than a bow, which makes up for the clumsiness.” He tested the tension with his thumb and then, to Rumarin’s surprise, handed the weapon to him.

Rumarin took it, momentarily surprised by the weight. He hefted it in his hands, then caught the string between his fingers, finding it to be well waxed. The weapon felt solid and heavy, the tension in the drawn string steadying him in its deadliness. Adrenaline, combined with the bracing sensation of the potions coursing through him, had him starting to feel wired. “Don’t touch the trigger until you’re ready,” warned Blaise. “That thing can take out a troll in one shot if used properly.” 

“Why are you giving this to me?” asked Rumarin.

“I’m going to be our shield,” said Blaise. “I’m the spellsword between the two of us— between my blade and magic, if you back me up with the crossbow, we should be fine.” He reached up and unsheathed his sword as punctuation, the drawn-out metallic sound promising blood. 

“Try not to let him make eye contact with you,” continued Blaise, repacking his knapsack. “Like I said, the stronger ones can enthrall you, and while the eye contact isn’t enough on its own, it definitely helps. The potion will shield you somewhat.” 

“Just a hunch, but it seems like you’ve done this before,” said Rumarin, still turning the weapon in his hands, testing the weight and balance. He’d shot a crossbow before, years ago, but it had been a long time. He was a good shot with his bound bow, though, so that had to count for something. Hefting the crossbow to his shoulder, he sighted down the barrel at a nearby tree trunk about twenty paces away. The weapon bucked against him as the bolt flew straight and true, burying itself in the trunk just a hand’s width from where he had intended to aim. _Still got it,_ he thought with satisfaction.

Blaise ignored his comment, but passed him the waist quiver and clapped him on the shoulder as he swung up his pack and motioned for Rumarin to follow as he strode back out onto the road. 

They approached the fort warily, but there was no sign of movement outside. It was almost eerie. Most old forts like this Rumarin had encountered around Skyrim were inhabited by some garden variety of bandit, shouting down warnings and insults— if not projectiles— at the occasional passerby. This one was silent and still. 

They slipped past the outer parapet and edged along the inner wall, eyes peeled for any sign of movement. The sun had barely crested the horizon; early morning shadows and stillness blanketed the yard. All was quiet. There was no sign the fort was even inhabited, other than the churned-up and refrozen snow outside the heavy iron-banded door. No lantern or brazier shone. 

Blaise crouched low and shed his pack, Rumarin quickly following suit. No use carrying the extra weight in where it could hurt. Rumarin eyed the door. In a hushed voice, he remarked, “Don’t suppose we’re lucky enough for that to be unlocked.” 

Blaise crept up to the door and gave it an experimental shove— nothing. The door was locked from the inside. “Well, it was worth a try, although it wouldn’t be much of a fort if this were that easy,” said Rumarin, trying to keep the hopeful note from his voice. “Shall we give up?”

Blaise shot him a look, then fished a ring of lockpicks from a pocket in his cloak, He gingerly began fiddling with the lock, trying to be as quiet as possible. 

Rumarin watched him probe the lock for a couple minutes, then stepped up and nudged him out of the way. He took the picks and bent to the task, and a second later, the lock snapped open with a dull click. Blaise made an impressed sound.

“Lockpicking is a required course on the adventurer’s syllabus,” said Rumarin, by way of explanation. The two drew back, eyeing the door. There was still no sign of movement. Blaise stepped forward and heaved open the heavy door with a dull creak. 

The two of them stared into deep, musty darkness.


	3. Dangerous Game

Rumarin did not like the look of the darkness yawning from inside. He glanced at Blaise for direction. The other man raised his hand and a magelight sprang forth, drifting inside the entryway and illuminating dirty flagstones and stone walls curving away from the door. There was still no sign of movement.

Blaise moved through the doorway and Rumarin followed, ignoring the awful writhing feeling in the pit of his stomach. The smell assaulted Rumarin’s nose the moment they stepped foot inside: it was the same stale odor he’d smelled a hundred times in old forts and ruins across Skyrim, but with something else layered on top— the sickly, metallic tang of blood. 

Blaise motioned for Rumarin to follow and crept silently ahead down the hallway, blade held ready and raw magicka curling in the other palm. They hadn’t gone ten paces before the magelight abruptly extinguished, and Rumarin very nearly yelped. Blaise held up a hand sharply, and when Rumarin’s eyes adjusted, he could see the faint, flickering light of candles or a torch up ahead, beyond the reach of the daylight spilling from the door they’d left slightly ajar. 

They advanced forward until the passageway opened up into a dank, medium-sized anteroom of stone with several passages branching off from it. Torches burned fitfully in about half the brackets on the walls. There was still no sign of life; not even the scuffling of rats broke the musty silence. The stillness was eerie. Blaise glanced toward Rumarin, then turned down the right hand passage, creeping, catlike, such that his feet made no sound. Rumarin followed, crossbow at the ready, but couldn’t resist the occasional glance over his shoulder. It would be a fine thing if they were ambushed from behind. 

The passageway sloped steeply downward, and they spiraled down at least one level before the floor leveled out again. Again, they could see the faint glow of torchlight up ahead. The two hunters fanned out, giving Rumarin a clear line of sight over Blaise’s lowered spell hand, but when they rounded the corner, they were faced with a row of ironclad cells— they had found the dungeon. And all four cells were occupied. 

Rumarin lowered the crossbow as they hastened forward. The prisoner in the first cell had leapt up with a curse at their entrance, and was now gripping the bars in the door with two white-knuckled hands. He was a big Nord man, dressed like a farmer, dirty yellow hair braided back from his face. “Who are you? Are you… _his?_ ” he hissed, his voice changing from excitement to suspicion as he squinted out from between the bars, searching their faces. 

“No,” said Blaise, scanning the row of cells. Rumarin could see two more pairs of hands appear, gripping the bars as the occupants peered out. “Tell me— are you the prisoners of a vampire?” 

“Yes,” breathed the Nord man. “We’ve been here for several days, all from Eastmarch, captured by the bloodsucker in Windhelm or nearby. He hasn’t… turned anyone.” His mouth twisted around the word. “I think we’re supposed to be a… food source.” 

A dry sob emanated from the adjacent cell at that. Rumarin could dimly see a red-haired Imperial woman within, gold rings on the fingers of the hand clutching her lips. 

“How many are here?” whispered Blaise. “How many of you, and how many of them?” 

“We are four,” said the man. “One per cell. As far as I know, there’s only one bloodsucker, but he has two… _servants_ helping him.” He spat the last words, eyes narrowing. Human servants? Rumarin shivered at the memory of Blaise’s warning: _The stronger ones can enthrall you._

“Please,” hissed the Imperial woman, voice tinged with hysteria. “Get the key and get us out. This is a waking nightmare. My daughter is in the next cell— she’s just a child. I beg of you, in the name of Stendarr—”

“We will come back for you,” Blaise promised, hefting his blade. “Let us take care of the threat first. Try to stay calm.” 

They crept back the way they came. Rumarin felt chills all over his body. “Looks like he’s built up quite a winter pantry,” he muttered under his breath, mainly to distract himself so that he wouldn’t puke. “Some plasma per day keeps the doctor away,” 

Blaise glared at him, raising a finger to his lips. They took the center passageway from the main anteroom this time. As soon as they reached the end of the hall and could peer into the dank room beyond, lit by flickering torchlight, Blaise froze and threw an arm out across Rumarin’s chest. The room looked to once have been an armory, but most of the weapon racks were empty. Instead, a rough double bed was pushed up against the far wall, and in it, two frail forms tossed fitfully in sleep. 

Blaise pushed him back with the arm across his chest until they were standing deep in the shadows, out of line of sight to the bed. He leaned in close. “Thralls,” he murmured, breath stirring the hair at the nape of Rumarin’s neck and sending a shiver down his spine. “If we kill them, the master will know. We should backtrack and find him first. This gives me hope that he is indeed sleeping. We can deal with them later— they won’t be a problem once he's dead.” 

Once again, they backtracked to the anteroom, and descended stealthily down the third and final passageway. Rumarin was trying to decide whether the offhand confidence in Blaise’s tone made him feel better or worse. On one hand, Rumarin was clearly in good hands. On the other, before they’d come in here, Blaise had been apprehensive that Rumarin was going to walk away, which suggested that he wasn’t as confident as he seemed. He felt his shoulders climbing higher and higher as they crept along. He hefted the crossbow. 

The passage opened into a low, dark room. Rumarin couldn’t guess at its original purpose— perhaps some sort of war room— but no sooner had he gauged its size and shape that his eyes fixed on the coffin leaning upright against the wall in the corner. A dark form reclined prone within it, barely visible in the light of a few stubby candles burning in a large metal dish on an overturned box. An unpleasant thrill ran down Rumarin’s spine at the sight of the dark shape in the coffin and he had to steel himself not to turn and run. 

Blaise turned to Rumarin, eyes glinting darkly in the low light. He tapped Rumarin’s chest with a knuckle, between the collarbone and shoulder, and then the same spot on the other side. Aim here. He gestured, and the barest wisp of magelight curled between his fingers before winking out.

Rumarin wanted to ask why he wouldn’t aim straight for the face, but he didn’t want to make any noise lest that thing wake up, and Blaise certainly did seem to know what he was doing. Blaise held up a finger, then started to creep forward hugging the wall, advancing toward the coffin. He raised his sword, then looked back at Rumarin and gestured sharply, throwing up the magelight.

Rumarin squinted in the sudden glare, but just at that moment, the vampire’s eyes snapped open and he jerked his gaze away, almost losing his aim. He had just a moment to register the evil orange glow of the vampire’s gaze before the crossbow kicked and the first bolt embedded itself deep in the vampire’s shoulder, pinning him to the coffin. Rumarin quickly reloaded, took aim and took the second shot, pinning him on the other side where Blaise had gestured. The creature howled, twisting and writhing, squinting against the harsh magelight.

The vampire’s hands came up, arms bent awkwardly at the elbows, and an evil-looking red bolt of energy leaped from one palm, snaking toward Blaise. He threw up a ward at the last second, deflecting the spell, then darted forward, pulling something from a pocket of his cloak. He narrowly dodged a wild sweep from one black-clad leg as he skirted the coffin— Rumarin was dumbfounded; the creature was straining against the two bolts as if his cloak were merely snagged on a nail as opposed to being mortally wounded. 

_“Watch the door!”_ Blaise shouted, and Rumarin leaped further into the room, pressing his back against the wall where he could watch both the passageway and the vampire, heart pounding. 

Blaise had managed to get within reach of the monster, and in one fluid motion, he kicked the vampire hard between the legs. The monster grunted, writhing but unable to double over due to the crossbow bolts pinning his upper body. Blaise reached into the coffin, narrowly evading a wild snap of the vampire’s jaws, and yanked a burlap sack over his head. All he could do was flail from the elbow down, flinging nasty jets of fire every which way and thrashing his head within the sack, jaws snapping.

“QUIET!” bellowed Blaise, and the vampire hissed, still straining. The next jet of fire narrowly missed Blaise’s midsection, as the vampire tracked his voice. 

“If you don’t settle, I’ll set the coffin on fire,” said Blaise, and his voice was low and menacing this time. Even through the frantic hammering of his heart, Rumarin felt a chill at the dark steel in his tone.

That got the vampire’s attention. He straightened as much as he could in his pinned state, and somehow the aura of menace strengthened. “This is not civilized,” he intoned, and even muffled by the sack, the cold calm of the voice was like silk over ice. 

“I grant no quarter to leeches,” hissed Blaise. 

“My children will be here momentarily. We will feast on you,” came the reply, still cold and strangely composed. The vampire’s black robes clung wetly to his torso. 

Rumarin glanced at Blaise, alarmed. Blaise shook his head, ever so slightly, but nodded toward the hall. Rumarin edged further into the room, away from the gloom in the passageway. His night vision was thoroughly ruined by the magelight, but he needed to try to keep one eye on the vampire and Blaise. What was Blaise _doing?_ he thought furiously. _Kill the thing already!_

“You are going to answer my questions,” Blaise growled coldly.

The vampire cackled dryly. “This is a dangerous game you are playing, mortal.” 

Blaise ignored this. His stance was tense and wary. “What can you tell me about Movarth?” _What?_ thought Rumarin. _Was that a place? A name?_

Despite the sack, Rumarin thought the vampire seemed surprised. “Where did you hear that name?” 

Now Blaise looked astonished. He didn’t respond, apparently thinking hard. 

“You are surprised,” came the muffled murmur. A calculating note had entered the vampire’s tone. “You did not expect me to know it. I have not seen that upstart in two years, since he came to the castle with ambitions far beyond his merit. If his name is becoming known to the mortals, then he has been sloppy indeed. This could be interesting,” the vampire mused. 

Rumarin was thoroughly flummoxed by the odd conversation he was witnessing, and especially by the apparent nonchalance of the vampire. He had to be in pain— assuming he felt pain at all?— and here he was, conversing calmly with his captor. Rumarin re-trained the crossbow on the center of the vampire’s chest while trying to simultaneously keep his gaze on the dark entrance to the room— this seemed uncomfortably like stalling to him. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, eyeing the still darkness of the passageway. 

The vampire continued, almost as if to himself. “He hunted us, in the Second Era. His physical prowess is formidable, with the Gift— I believe that is the only reason he was not killed for his impudence. But he overreaches; his blood is impure. Harkon is being foolish to even entertain his delusions of grandeur.” The voice dripped with derision. 

“What delusions of grandeur?” spat Blaise. The vampire’s shrouded head tracked his position as he paced, making Rumarin thoroughly uneasy.

“He hopes to earn a place amongst our ranks, but ours is a bloodline more ancient and pure than your piteous mortal faculties are capable to grasp,” came the reply. “Some among us would not be sorry to see him eliminated.” 

“Where can I find him?” hissed Blaise, lips drawn tight and eyes blazing, taut as a bowstring. 

Suddenly, Rumarin could hear sounds of rapid approach coming from the darkness in the hall. “ _Blaise,_ ” he said warningly, “Time is running down on this little operation.” 

Everything seemed to happen at once. The vampire’s head whipped toward him at the words, and Rumarin barely had time to dodge a jet of the same pulsating red magic that had almost hit Blaise. Just as he dodged away, stumbling further into the room, two shrieking bodies burst from the passageway. Rumarin dropped the crossbow and barely had the time or wherewithal to seize his ghostly blade before the first one was upon him, brandishing a rusty mace.

It was instant chaos. Rumarin was thrown to the floor by the momentum of his attacker, a gaunt Nord woman with stringy hair and deep circles under the eyes. “MASTER!” she screamed, clawing for his face with one hand and attempting to beat him over the head with the mace in her other. He managed to wedge his shoulder past the arm holding the mace and elbow her hard in the side of the head, then used his right leg where it was tangled with hers to flip her over onto the floor. She was frail and barely weighed anything. The mace flew out of her hand.

He staggered to his feet, kicking her arm away when she tried to grab him around the legs, and sprinted toward where the other figure had tackled Blaise into the wall beside the coffin. The gaunt Redguard man pivoted, the dagger in his hand glistening wetly, and snatched the cloth from the head of the vampire, exposing his face. Rumarin lunged, sweeping his spectral blade low and slicing across the Redguard’s hamstrings. The man howled and stumbled, and Rumarin immediately rolled to the side, a primal terror driving him to get as far away from the creature in the coffin as possible. In his peripheral vision, he saw Blaise heave himself off the wall, narrowly dodge the sweep of magic streaming wildly from the vampire’s clawed hands, and thrust his palms toward the coffin. The room was plunged into searing brightness and heat as a massive stream of fire erupted from Blaise, engulfing the coffin.

The scream the vampire let out was otherworldly. Both human figures writhed and shrieked on the floor in eerie sympathy. Rumarin squinted through the glare, transfixed in horror, as the vampire thrashed against the burning wood where he was pinned. The dark figure shimmered to his eyes as flames consumed him, and an awful, sickly sweet stench permeated the room. Rumarin felt bile gathering in his throat.

Blaise grabbed the male thrall by the leg and dragged him away from the flames, motioning to Rumarin to do the same for the woman. She was thrashing so hard it was hard to get a hold on her, desperately trying to bite and claw him.

Within a moment, the vampire’s screaming died away and the sounds of thrashing from the inferno subsided. Rumarin gagged against the thick, bilious smoke suffusing the chamber. Both of the human thralls stopped struggling in concert, slumping limply to the ground as dead weight. A high, keening wail was coming from the woman. The man merely stared, eyes glassy. 

Blaise crouched down, staring into the man’s face. “What is your name?” he asked. 

There was no response. The man’s eyes tracked his own, but Rumarin realized with a chill that there was nothing but emptiness there. Beside him, the woman snuffled and keened, hysterical. Rumarin could do nothing except stare in horror. This was much worse than he had imagined. 

Blaise moved to the woman and grasped her chin in his hand. Blood trickled from her mouth where she had bitten her tongue. “Are you still in there?” he asked grimly, staring intently into her face. She continued to shudder and spasm, moaning weakly. Blaise sighed and closed his eyes for a moment, then drew his belt knife. 

“Blaise—” started Rumarin in a panic, but in a quick, fluid motion, Blaise’s knife was at the woman’s throat and he drew it across, rolling her gently onto her side. Her shoulders continued to shudder and hitch as she bled out. There was no reaction whatsoever from the Redguard man. Blaise turned to him next, and Rumarin had to look away as he grasped the man’s hair and slit his throat as well, easing down beside the woman. The man’s eyes had tracked the knife and he had made no move to resist. Rumarin shuddered.

The black, oily smoke was starting to make the air in the room unbreathable. Blaise retrieved the crossbow from where it had fallen, and after a brief and frantic search around the room, snatched a large iron key from an overturned barrel in the opposite corner. The two of them retreated back up the passageway. As they emerged into the torchlit anteroom, Rumarin finally found words. “Blaise, what was that back there? They weren’t resisting you. That was murder.” 

“They were already as good as dead,” he said gruffly. “Their minds were permanently damaged by the leech’s enchantment. They would have stayed like that until they wasted away. I did them a kindness.”

Rumarin released his bound blade back into the aether, feeling numb as he followed Blaise back down the passageway and into the dungeon. They were greeted by strangled cries of relief as Blaise moved down the row of cells, unlocking each door. 

The people who stumbled out were in rough shape, but no one appeared to be seriously injured. In addition to the Nord farmer and Imperial woman, there was a young woman who looked to be about fourteen, clinging to her mother and sobbing, and an Argonian youth in rough clothes who looked to be a dock worker from Windhelm. 

The woman moved to grasp Rumarin’s hand, but Blaise stepped forward with a sharp gesture. “Were all of you bitten?” 

She flinched, recoiling, but then nodded stiffly, eyes filling with tears again. “Was anyone bitten for the first time more than three days ago?” asked Blaise insistently, staring intently into each face in turn, and Rumarin noticed his hand hovering close to his sword. 

No one had been, but rather than take chances, Blaise herded them all quickly back up the passageway and out of the keep. The bright midmorning sunshine reflected almost blindingly off the snow after emerging from the darkness inside. The world looked sharp and white.

He stood there blinking dumbly for a second in the bracing cold air, watching without really seeing as Blaise’s tense back advanced across the yard toward where they had dropped their packs, then finally doubled over and vomited in the snow. 

When his stomach was empty, he straightened, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. Blaise was rummaging in his pack, and quickly returned to the four people cowering in the snow in the shadow of the keep with four vials. He stood and watched while each prisoner drank the contents, gasping and shuddering as they held onto each other for stability. “If you were infected, you’re cured now,” he said. 

Only then did Rumarin notice the red splotches in the snow that had marked Blaise’s path from the fort’s entrance. “You’re bleeding,” he said hoarsely, starting forward with a lurch.

Blaise was uncorking a red vial when Rumarin reached his side. He knocked it back and made a face, then the warm glow of healing magic bloomed in his right hand as he passed it over his left arm. “The Redguard thrall cut me while I was distracted,” he grimaced. He pushed up his sleeve and Rumarin watched the torn flesh of his forearm knit back together, rapidly-drying blood flaking off. His sleeve was in tatters. “Are you hurt?” He raised his eyes to Rumarin. 

Rumarin shook his head. “Not physically, but I think I might be permanently emotionally scarred, thank you.” He grimaced. 

“Well, at least your sarcasm is still intact. I think you’re fine,” said Blaise. 

“It’s a coping mechanism!” protested Rumarin. But Blaise had already turned back to the group of freed prisoners where they were shivering in the snow.

“Did you have belongings with you when you were taken?” he asked. They had, and Blaise and the Nord man ventured back inside the keep, returning awhile later with a bundle of cloaks, a sack of provisions, and what looked like the same rusty mace the female thrall had tried to use to beat Rumarin over the head. 

The Imperial woman turned to Rumarin. “There is no sum that could repay you for this, but please, take these,” she said, pulling the rings off of her shaking fingers and folding his fingers around them. He tried to protest, but she pushed his hand firmly against his chest. 

The others clustered around then, wringing their hands that they had nothing to offer by way of reward. Blaise waved them off, but then paused. “There is one thing,” he said. “Did any of you hear a name, or any other information from the vampire or his thralls?” 

The Argonian spoke up. “Thorvar,” he hissed. “The female thrall said it once, and the male struck her for her impudence. But nothing else. The vampire came to us only to...feed, and the thralls only to throw bread between the bars.” He shuddered.

“Thank you,” said Blaise. He turned to Rumarin then, motioning him a few steps away from the others. Rumarin stalked toward him. The adrenaline was wearing off, and he was starting to feel the full weight of the fact that he probably had come within a hairsbreadth of dying in that moldy fort.

He leaned in close to Blaise and hissed, “You owe me a major explanation. And a lot of money. Hazard pay.” 

“Yes,” conceded Blaise. “But let’s put some distance between us and this place first. These people look like they will be fine to walk, but I cannot escort them back toward Windhelm. Where will you go?”

Rumarin sighed. “I still can’t even believe I’m alive right now, and I am definitely not capable of strategic thought at the moment. Where are you going?” 

“North to Winterhold,” said Blaise. “Do you care to accompany me?” 

Rumarin stewed for a moment. Winterhold would definitely have been far from his first choice, but in that moment he wasn’t exactly thinking clearly, and dogging Blaise’s heels until he got some satisfactory answers honestly seemed preferable to playing knight for four traumatized villagers. He threw up his hands. “Fine.” 

They sent the little group of former captives south, urging them to join up with the first Eastmarch guard patrol they encountered and to be wary of wolves. The big farmer, in typical Nord fashion, seemed none the worse for their ordeal and more than capable to keep the others safe at least in the short term, so it was with a clear conscience that Rumarin watched Blaise accept their final effusive thanks stoically, and then the two of them turned north. 

They advanced along the road, neither speaking. Rumarin took in deep gulps of the cold, sharp air, trying to quell his racing thoughts. His nausea had subsided, but every now and then a shudder racked him as he remembered the dead look in the Redguard man’s eyes, the desperation with which the captives had clutched at his sleeves. 

Soon, the land started to drop off on the northeast side of the road, revealing a sweeping vista over the craggy hills and ice plains sloping down toward the Sea of Ghosts. When they came upon a rocky promontory that jutted out from the road with a flat surface that was well-shielded from the wind, they stopped to rest.

Rumarin slumped down against the icy stone, pulling out his waterskin to drink and cursing when it was frozen solid. Blaise took it from his hands and channeled a thin stream of fire magic down the neck to thaw it rapidly. “Thanks,” said Rumarin grudgingly, still feeling very out of sorts.

Blaise eased himself down beside Rumarin with a stiff grunt. They sat in silence for a few moments, watching a snow bear prowling across the distant ice floes far downslope. Finally, Rumarin broke the silence. “Who’s Movarth?” 

Blaise sighed. By the way his shoulders dropped a little, it was obvious he’d been waiting for the question. “That is exactly what I was hoping to find out. And this time, I got what I was looking for.”

“This time??” spluttered Rumarin. “I mean, it was obvious that you weren’t a vampire-interrogation virgin, but how many times have you done this?” 

“Now, neither are you,” Blaise pointed out darkly. Rumarin continued to glare at him. Blaise cast a glance his direction, studying his face. Rumarin adopted the severe expression of someone who, he imagined, would not let up until he got the answers he was looking for.

It seemed to work, because eventually Blaise reluctantly replied, “I’ve lost count of how many I’ve tracked across Skyrim by now. If the average person knew how many vampires there are in Tamriel… but this was the very first one who had any useful information.”

“I’m going to need more context,” said Rumarin. “Let me ask you very explicitly: Why in Oblivion are you tracking powerful undead monsters across Skyrim asking questions about— what did he say? Some ‘upstart’ undead vampire hunter?”

“Movarth is really the one I’ve been hunting,” said Blaise. “The others are just potential sources of information.”

Rumarin pieced together his memories of the strange interrogation. He’d known there was something extraordinary about Blaise from the start, but the truth was turning out to be perhaps more than he’d bargained for. Despite that, he had to admit he was intrigued. “If I’m not mistaken, it didn’t exactly sound like the one we just killed was particularly fond of this Movarth.” 

Blaise nodded. “But more importantly, the leech knew Movarth’s name in the first place— this is the first time that has happened. I’ve always known it was a long shot that I’d find him this way— the undead are solitary and secretive, it’s not as if there’s a tight-knit community there. Perhaps this one we just killed was particularly old or well-connected.” 

“What was all of that about bloodlines?” asked Rumarin. He felt gripped by a morbid fascination. 

“I don’t know,” admitted Blaise. “He seemed almost disdainful— he said that Movarth’s blood is ‘impure’, that he’s naive if he thinks that he can somehow rise in status. He was referencing a vampire hierarchy,” said Blaise pensively, “one that he clearly believes is more immutable than Movarth does. I've never heard the name Harkon before, though.” 

“Some sort of vampire superiority complex,” mused Rumarin. “Maybe he’s an undead Thalmor.”

“I think he was a Nord— or at least, he used to be,” said Blaise dryly, “but sure, point taken.” 

He continued, “The last thing he said was ‘Some among us would not be sorry to see him eliminated.’ I wonder if he would have given me Movarth’s location if his thralls hadn’t burst in at that moment.” There was bitterness in his tone. 

They sat in silence for a moment, Rumarin turning it over in his mind. He kept returning to the awful dead look in the Redguard’s eyes. Hesitantly, he glanced sideways at Blaise. “Before we went in, you said something about the stronger ones having the power to enthrall people, force them to… worship them. Is that what was done to those two people?” 

Blaise sighed again, grimly. “Yes. That was a powerful vampire. We were lucky. If this had been the first one I tracked, I don’t think I’d be here right now.” 

Rumarin leaned his hooded head back against the rock with a dull thunk and blew a strand of hair out of his face. “What if we’d gone in there and he was awake? Or, what if he had enthralled one of us? Or what if I shot and missed?”

“But you didn’t.” Blaise had turned his head and was looking at him now, blue eyes piercing. His breath made a misty cloud in the air between them.

“Still,” said Rumarin stubbornly. “I resent you dragging me into this without a little more forewarning. I’m great at killing bandits and run-of-the-mill undead, and I can even hold my own against mages under certain circumstances, but this was another level. Dancing with death is one thing, but I’m not about to gamble with my immortal soul. Its status is dubious enough as it is,” he grumbled.

“What about if you chose to view it as doing your duty as an upstanding adventurer to cleanse the world of evil predators?” said Blaise. Rumarin looked at him sidelong. Eventually, he decided not to rise to the bait. 

“The only duty I have is to myself, and he would rather be healthy and alive." 

Blaise raised an eyebrow and looked as if he wanted to say something else, but thought better of it. He reached around and dug into his pack, then tossed a small pouch to Rumarin. It clinked as he caught it. “Feel better now?” 

“Marginally,” grumped Rumarin, rummaging around inside the sack with two fingers. A good amount of gold winked up at him from among the silver. It was amazing what the solid weight of coin in one’s hand could do to soothe all manner of stresses. This had to be at least half again as much as he needed to live comfortably for a month. 

Debt settled, mortal danger abated and pique mollified, he realized he was ravenous. “Did you see any game around here? I’m famished.” 

  


***

  


“So, what’s next?” asked Rumarin, after they had made an unsatisfying meal of more cold, dry travel provisions. Game was scarce in this desolate corner of the road, so they had made do with what they had. The sun was high in the sky— he guessed it was just after midday. “Do you have a list of bloodsucking predators that you’re working your way down?” 

“Well, the new information from this morning changes my strategy,” Blaise answered. He had stood and was stamping his feet, trying to keep feeling in his toes. The wind was bitingly cold. “If there’s one person who can help me find out more about Movarth the vampire hunter turned bloodsucker, and maybe Thorvar and this Harkon as well, it’s the librarian at the Arcanaeum in the College of Winterhold. I was headed in that general direction anyway when I ran into you, this was just a side errand.” 

“Some errand,” muttered Rumarin. Then the rest of what Blaise had said sunk in. “You have connections at the college?” he asked, perhaps a little too casually. 

“I do,” said Blaise carefully. Rumarin waited for him to elaborate, but he only tore off another piece of jerky with his teeth and washed it down with a swig from his waterskin. 

Rumarin had already decided he wasn’t going to pester Blaise for information about himself. What little pride and dignity he had left prevented it. “Well, I can’t say I’ve ever been to Winterhold myself— frozen wasteland and all that— but if my mental map is sound, then you’re looking at perhaps two or three days on the road if you make haste.” 

Blaise was silent for a moment. When he spoke, he was staring into the fire. “You said you’ve never been to Winterhold. I was serious when I asked if you wanted to join me.”

Rumarin sighed, rubbing his temples. Now that he had put some distance between himself and that nightmare scene, he could think a little more clearly. In truth, he still hadn’t given any real thought to what he would do next. He had been expecting to backtrack toward Windhelm and continue his original course west. But he also had to admit to himself that he’d more or less already made the decision to stick around with Blaise. He took a minute to reconsider whether his newfound relative wealth changed anything, and found that surprisingly it didn’t. Between following a hot vampire hunter into who knew what and returning to aimlessly chasing the wind in comfort, he found his choice to be irritatingly obvious. He was who he was, and he was too curious about Blaise to turn aside now. 

True, the thought of going to Winterhold stirred up complicated feelings. He had never really considered making the trek up to the site of the college before— the northeastern holds were harsh and unforgiving in even the mildest seasons. As soon as that thought crossed his mind, he chuckled wryly to himself. _It’s all about the bad weather. Sure._

He realized Blaise was looking at him sideways now, having heard his quiet laugh. He cast about for a suitable response. Visiting the college wasn’t a confirmation of anything, it was only a sightseeing trip to an adventurer who had seen most of the rest of Skyrim already. What he actually said out loud was, “Sure, why not. Nothing like a little frostbite to make an Elf feel alive. I don’t need all ten of my toes anyway.” 

Blaise nodded, the ghost of a small smile playing across his lips. “Perhaps we should keep moving, then. The weather is holding for now— best make use of it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I actually did a little math to prove to myself that the lil crossbow bolt pinning trick wasn't too far-fetched (similar method detailed [here](https://www.discovermagazine.com/the-sciences/the-walking-dead-shuffles-into-science-education-with-bolts-brains-and-a-physics-quiz)) and the verdict is: it's questionable but not *totally* ridiculous.


	4. To Winterhold

The sky had faded to a pale slate as they made their way back to the road. Looking up at it, Rumarin felt a grim sense of foreboding, thinking of the famed snowstorms that often swept across these mountains. He was very glad of his new heavy bearskin cloak. It was perhaps the most expensive thing he’d ever bought, and if he was less impulsive it might have occurred to him that Windhelm was perhaps not the best place to make such a large purchase— city markup notwithstanding, that particular town’s general sentiments toward the shape of his ears were not in his favor economically. But, what was done was done, and he was certainly getting used to roughing it much more comfortably. 

Beside him, Blaise was similarly bundled up, down to the fur lining of his boots— Rumarin approved of foreigners who took the vagaries of Skyrim’s harsh climate seriously. There was no easy shelter out here, they were still many hours out from Winterhold, and if they got caught in a storm, they would be lucky to survive the night.

The traveling was hard going. They had to step carefully to avoid sliding on the ice, and Rumarin’s muscles ached with the aftermath of hard exertion and spent adrenaline. Luckily, grim skies or no, the weather did indeed hold through the rest of the afternoon, save for a light icy wind blowing in from the north off the Sea of Ghosts. 

The last stubborn bits of hardy vegetation started to die out as the road started to curve around to the north, and at Blaise’s suggestion, they stopped beside the skeleton of a scraggly dead evergreen and cut and stripped a few branches for firewood before the landscape grew even more desolate. 

As dusk neared, the sky began to darken to a dull, flat grey. “That looks like snow,” Rumarin pointed out. “We’d best look for a cave for the night.” That would be their best shot at staying warm, or at least as warm as it was possible to be in this frozen wasteland. He tried not to think of the temperate breezes of the southern Reach, where he probably should have been headed instead. 

As it was, though, he was here with Blaise, and the sky was rapidly darkening, and they needed to find shelter. Luckily, it didn’t take long for them to find a solid candidate. The sun was dropping behind the mountains to the west, silhouetting Azura’s distant upraised arms in a muted pinkish gold, as they trekked a short way off the road to a crack-like fissure in the icy cliff. Rumarin summoned a spectral bow and nocked a shimmering arrow. “Best be ready for a turf war,” he said. “Shelter is scarce up here.” Blaise drew his blade, and the two of them advanced into the damp, chill darkness.

They found themselves in an icy tunnel leading downward into gloom. The footing was treacherous, and they carefully edged their way deeper into the cave, trying to remain as silent as possible. Eventually, the tunnel opened up into a round, natural bowl-like space. Craggy stone walls, slick with ice and dripping with icicles, curved up toward a small hole through which the pink-tinged twilight sky was visible. As it turned out, the only other living denizens of the cave were a couple of enormous cave rats, which Rumarin quickly dispatched with a shudder. Nasty things.

“I’m still not used to how… aggressive the rats in Skyrim can be,” Blaise said. He was looking speculatively at Rumarin, who hastily released his bow and dusted off his hands. The man’s gaze was penetrating. 

“Everything in Skyrim is hardcore,” Rumarin shrugged. “You should see the bunnies and chickens.” Blaise was still watching him, and it was making him self conscious, so he busied himself walking the perimeter of the icy bowl. He found no other entrances or evidence of life, but unfortunately also nothing else edible, or anything they could use to make a fire. If this cave had ever had human visitors before, they had left no trace, surprising for such a good shelter so close to the road. Hopefully Blaise wasn’t above eating rat for dinner. “As much as I hate rats… I’d eat just about anything hot right now.” 

“Glad we’re on the same page,” said Blaise, bringing out a sharp hunting knife. “I don’t like to let good meat go to waste.” He set to work skinning the carcasses. Rumarin privately admired his terse economy of motion. Blaise never wasted energy— every movement was exacting. He watched the knife slide precisely in and out, recalling that Blaise had said he’d been a hunter. 

Rumarin set the branches they had salvaged into a crude fire ring, using a couple of stones to elevate the wood off the ice-rimed stone floor. When they had a good blaze going, he settled back against his bedroll and watched Blaise set up the meat to turn over a collapsible spit he carried in his pack. “I’ve had to kill skeevers smaller than those rats.” Rumarin made a face, finding himself actually thankful to be eating rat for dinner. There were few edible things more foul than skeever meat. 

When Blaise returned from burying the carcasses outside, he settled onto his furs beside Rumarin, and the two of them sat and listened to the crackle and hiss of grease dripping into the fire and the faint howling of the wind across the fissure in the top of the cave. The sun was almost all the way down by now, but they could still see a faint pink glow and the sparkle of snowflakes drifting down into the cave.

Blaise eventually broke the silence, to Rumarin’s surprise. “You’re remarkably quick with that bow. Where did you learn?”

Rumarin waggled his eyebrows at Blaise, trying to hide how pleased he felt at the praise. “I have many skills. I only look delicate and prim.” 

Blaise snorted. “You always do that.” 

“What?” asked Rumarin, shifting on his furs to avoid a sharp rock that was poking him. 

“Put yourself down,” said Blaise. “I wouldn’t have used the word ‘prim’ to describe you. And I meant it— you handle your weapons well.”

Rumarin feigned indifference, waving a hand dismissively. “Well, I’m not talented enough with magic to qualify as a real mage, I’m too lazy to be a scholar, and I’m sure as hell not cultured, so being a passable marksman is my way of retaining my Elf credibility,” he said, shrugging. “Sure, I’m a good shot. Plus, my deadly arrows are ripped from the planes of Oblivion, so I think that wins me extra points for style.” In truth, he was proud of this particular skill— it was one of the few for which he could claim complete self-tutelage. In the years after he’d left the troupe, it had become abundantly clear that youthful enthusiasm alone wasn’t enough to fill one’s belly, and not every inn and tavern was friendly to a young Altmer rogue entertainer, even (perhaps especially) an uncommonly pretty one. So he’d learned to shoot, both to put food in his cookpot and as a shield against the dark night and all its denizens. The bound bow was really just a convenient way to travel light, although the extra flair did appeal to his penchant for drama.

Blaise huffed a short laugh. “I’d say it does. You keep saying that you aren’t a real mage, but if I’m not mistaken, conjuring bound weapons is an Adept-level skill.” His gaze was speculative again. 

Rumarin shrugged. “That’s where the knife ears come in handy, I guess,” he said, taking a drink from his waterskin to cover his discomfort. Why did every conversation always have to come back to magic? He could think of a hundred things he’d rather talk about.

Blaise didn’t take the hint, or else continued to press out of stubbornness. “Do you mean to say you picked up conjuring weapons just like that?” 

“Well, High Elves are born with an affinity for magic. A head start, if you will, in the skill of hand waggling.” He wiggled his fingers jokingly, but Blaise was still looking at him rather intently, eyes slightly narrowed. Finally, he gave up and sighed. “I never got any formal training in magic, so I have no idea where my theoretical limits are. But I do know that learning to be a mage in any real capacity requires more than being born with your ears pointed skyward.” He gave a wry shrug.

Blaise broke his gaze then, nodding slightly and leaning forward to poke at the coals and rotate the spit a half-turn. The smell of the roasting meat was a little… rank, Rumarin had to admit. He was far too hungry to care. “If you ever decide to test those limits, I bet you’ll surprise yourself.” 

Rumarin saw his opening and quickly turned the questions around on Blaise. “You talk like you have more than a little experience with formal magical training.”

It was Blaise’s turn to look as if he had been caught in a trap. What a strange dance, thought Rumarin wryly, each of them jockeying to keep his secrets. Finally, he answered, “Like I told you, I used to be affiliated with the School of Julianos in Wayrest. I know enough to realize potential when I see it.” 

“Is that where your college connections come from?” asked Rumarin. 

“You could say that,” said Blaise, but that was all. “I think this meat is ready.” 

The rat meat was about as appetizing as it always was, but the slightly sour smell was worse than the taste. Rumarin had no trouble scarfing down a sizable portion— he hadn’t realized how hungry he was. As he gnawed on a piece of a gamy haunch, he watched Blaise out of the corner of his eye. He was stripping the meat from his portion with practiced nonchalance. Rumarin had to hand it to Blaise— he may have finally met his match in the art of deflection. It was like pulling teeth to get more than a one-sentence answer on anything.

Some time after dinner was finished, the fire had mostly died down, and strong heat emanated from the glowing coals. Stretching out his legs, Rumarin felt the warmth soaking into his cold, stiff joints like a salve. Blaise had pulled out a small, leather-bound notebook and was making notes in it by the dim light. Rumarin was watching the air just outside the fire ring shimmer from the heat when suddenly he felt his body wracked by an involuntary shudder. He recoiled from the sickly stench of burning flesh, reliving the vampire’s grisly death, the skin of his face taut and hot in the blowback of Blaise’s scorching flame spell. 

Blaise was looking at him warily. “Are you all right?” 

Rumarin shook himself, pinching the bridge of his nose, trying to dispel the image of the burning coffin with the black figure writhing within. It felt burned into his eyelids. “Fine. Just a little waking nightmare,” he said. 

“I used to get those too,” said Blaise quietly, a look of recognition crossing his face. He scrubbed a hand across his face, hooking dark hair behind an ear. 

Rumarin side-eyed him. “How long have you been doing this?” He’d wanted to ask more questions earlier, but had been too focused on making sure Blaise felt guilty for dragging him into that death trap. He half expected Blaise to make him clarify the question, or to demur again. Surprisingly, he got a real answer. 

“A few years,” Blaise said. “My first was a disaster. It was back in High Rock. She was only a fledgling, but I was almost killed. Fledglings are abnormally strong. It was all I could do to stay alive, forget asking any questions— I lost a lot of blood. Did a stint at the temple to heal for several days after that.” He shook his head. “The second was a full-on blooded vampire. I didn’t know how the mind-control magic worked yet, so I made the mistake of eye contact— he had me under his thumb for a brief moment.” 

He shuddered slightly and folded his arms tightly across his chest. “I’m lucky that I had an experienced mercenary with me, or else I might have ended up like those poor wretches earlier.” Rumarin abruptly recalled their conversation on the road the day before, where Blaise had expressed such vehemence on the subject of free will. It hadn’t occurred to him that it might be based on personal experience.

“And the rest?” he prompted, fascinated despite himself. 

“I got wise after that second incident.” He held up the notebook. “Now, I keep records of everything that goes right and everything that goes wrong, and I follow three basic rules: Attack during the day to catch them when they’re sleeping if at all possible, break their line of sight so that they can’t enthrall you, and fire is your best friend. They hate fire.” He ticked them off on his fingers. 

“And, go for the groin,” amended Rumarin. “Not so different than any other man after all.” He tried to keep a straight face, but felt a hysterical laugh bubbling up. Sneaking a glance toward Blaise, the bland expression on his face was enough to cut Rumarin loose into helpless laughter. Even Blaise started chuckling despite every apparent attempt not to, burying his face in his cloak. The fact that his stoic companion seemed just as struck by the absurdness of kneeing a powerful and ancient vampire in the nuts only made it funnier. Several minutes passed before he could catch a breath. 

“All right, four rules, at least for the male ones. We’ll make a vampire hunter out of you yet,” said Blaise. Suddenly sobered, Rumarin felt a strange pang of… what? Pride? Anticipation? Did he want to hunt vampires? Not particularly, but if it meant sticking around following Blaise for a time… well, he could interrogate that thought more later. Blaise was a mystery, and Rumarin was a sucker for the brooding type. He was like a moth to a flame— it was almost embarrassing. As for the vampire hunting, though… he shoved that thought to the side. There was still Winterhold to worry about first, and he didn’t want to ruin the jolly mood.

After another hour or so of pleasant conversation, they bedded down beside the dying embers of the fire, pushing their bedrolls close to try to conserve what lingering warmth they could. The air in the cave was still and damp, but the heat haze from the fire made it almost cozy. The sun was completely down, but there was still a faint glow of moonlight through the hole in the top of the cave. 

Rumarin volunteered for first watch, sitting propped up in his bedroll. Blaise lay beside him, huddled deep in his furs. Rumarin was acutely aware of Blaise’s back pressed against his thigh through the heavy hides. He listened to the soft popping of the embers and the faint moaning of the wind across the fissure, thinking that despite everything he had seen that day, this felt miles better than drifting across Skyrim’s frozen landscape by his lonesome. 

Try as he might to distract himself, his thoughts kept returning to Blaise. Why exactly had he decided to join up with this stranger who possibly had a death wish? It had felt like instinct, and he usually had better reasons. There were plenty of easier ways to make money, and he had traveled with many mercenaries and adventurers who were much more forthcoming, not to mention less hell-bent on hunting down the darkest and most baleful of Skyrim’s denizens. 

Despite all that, Blaise exerted a strange hold over him. He carried around a deep sadness, and Rumarin had a weak spot for a good story. He just needed to be careful that he didn’t become a tragic footnote. 

*** 

They were on the road almost two more days before reaching Winterhold. Mercifully, the weather held, although his nose and ears were perpetually numb. They passed the intervening night in a Winterhold mine, bedding down in the mineshaft with a gruff group of Nord miners who turned out to have quite the stock of mead secreted away and were therefore excellent company. Blaise had remained typically reserved, even as the rest of them traded bawdy jokes, but the combination of the mead and the simple fact of sleeping among other warm bodies helped Rumarin sleep well and deeply for the first time in days. Following that night, other than a tense encounter with a frost troll, which took three crossbow bolts and another half-dozen bound arrows to take down, they saw not another living soul on the road. 

Late afternoon on the second day saw them passing the first outbuildings on the way into Winterhold. The frigid air had taken on the taste of salt as the road curved closer to the sea. The cold was different, bitterer and wetter. Harsh wind off the sea had buffeted them for most of the morning, and Rumarin’s cheeks felt raw and strangely tacky from the salt. 

“I’m not sure what exactly I was expecting for this city, but it wasn’t… this,” Rumarin muttered to Blaise, taking in the run-down wooden buildings and worn stone structures lining both sides of the single street. Snowberry bushes and some sort of arctic bramble choked the gaps between the houses, and empty windows stared from more than one abandoned, crumbling building like eyes. 

“The town and the whole northern coast suffered a series of major storms off the Sea of Ghosts about eighty years ago,” said Blaise. “A lot of the town just eroded and collapsed into the sea. As you can see, they never really recovered.”

Rumarin glanced sideways at him. “How do you always know things about Skyrim that I don’t even know, when I’ve lived here most of my life?” 

Blaise didn’t answer, but raised a gloved hand to point straight ahead. “You can see the college now.” 

Rumarin stared, flabbergasted. A massive stone structure loomed ahead, impossibly perched on a tapering pinnacle of rock like a great bird of prey. Far below, frigid seawater dotted with icebergs stretched from the base of the stone spire out toward the flat grey horizon. A spindly bridge spanned the yawning chasm between the island of the college and the top of the cliff at the edge of town. 

Blaise continued, “The college was miraculously untouched in the Great Collapse, and that’s one of the big reasons the locals don’t trust the mages.” 

“Not that the Nords seem to need much of an excuse to distrust mages,” retorted Rumarin. “Their motto seems to be ‘if you can’t drink it, stab something with it, or play an insufferable drinking song on it, it’s useless’, and magic definitely falls into that category.”

They had reached the broad stone steps leading up to a vestibule where the bridge to the college began. The significance of where he was standing settled onto Rumarin like a weight. The thought crossed his mind that it wasn’t too late to turn back— he could beg ill, go back to the inn they had passed on their way through town. He’d said he wanted to see Winterhold, and now he had seen it. 

“Now hold on a second.” He pulled up short, boots crunching on the snow, then grabbed Blaise's arm when he didn't stop. “We can’t just walk right up to the College of Winterhold, that place is supposed to be really secretive." 

Blaise shook him off and rolled his eyes. Before Rumarin could open his mouth again, a figure stepped out of the shadows in the vestibule, an Altmer woman wearing mage robes and a heavy cloak. She advanced halfway down the stone steps, stately and severe. “Greetings, travelers. What brings you to the College of Winterhold?” 

Rumarin swallowed audibly as her eyes passed over his robes, narrowing slightly. “Now you’ve done it,” he muttered sullenly to Blaise. This was not the type of once-over he was fond of getting. 

Mercifully, Blaise spoke up and drew her attention away. “You must be Faralda,” he said, and she inclined her head in acknowledgement. “My name is Blaise Silane. I’m here to visit the Arcanaeum and speak with Urag gro-Shub.” 

Faralda’s eyes widened when Blaise spoke his name. “Silane… are you related to Rachel Silane?” 

“She was my wife,” said Blaise. Rumarin felt a jolt. But Blaise didn’t look at him, keeping his eyes fixed on Faralda.

She nodded solemnly. “A great loss. Her research regarding the synthesis of multiple schools of magic to increase the efficacy of healing was truly groundbreaking.” 

Blaise inclined his head, mute. His face was a frozen mask. Rumarin felt an unwelcome squeeze in his chest. They’d spent all of four days together— who was he to expect Blaise to divulge every detail of his obviously painful past? Still, for some inexplicable reason, the newness of this revelation stung. 

“Well, I think we can dispense with the formalities in light of your affiliation,” said Faralda, stepping to the side and waving them on. “Your companion won’t cause any trouble, I’m sure,” she said, glancing again at Rumarin’s robes with disapproval. She met his eyes sternly. 

“Rumarin is a skilled conjurer, and my companion. I will vouch for him,” said Blaise. 

Rumarin blanched, then rapidly cycled through reluctant pride at the praise, guilt at its undeservedness, and finally embarrassed surliness. Why was it so easy for Blaise to get a rise out of him? Two steps onto the bridge, and this place was already messing with his head. 

Again Faralda’s eyes widened in surprise. “Rumarin, did you say? That’s not a common name. Don’t ask me why I remember this, but I believe Mirabelle might have a letter for you. It arrived some time ago, and I recall she was very puzzled about it given that we never had a student by that name.” 

This took Rumarin completely aback. Who would be writing to him, and why here of all places? If anything, this would be the last place anyone who knew him would ever expect to find him. He turned to find Blaise gazing at him curiously. He shrugged. Well, no turning back now. Perhaps this was the Aurbis telling him to grow up and get over himself.

They made their way out of the vestibule and onto the stone bridge. It was very exposed, and the drop to the ice below was at least a few hundred feet, estimated Rumarin uneasily. He kept close to the center of the path, following Blaise in single file as they made their way toward the hulking structure. To keep his mind off the dramatic death that waited only a pace away on either side, he studied the architecture of the building. Square and severe, but somehow still elegant, the stonework looked ancient. He couldn’t suppress a growing feeling of awe creeping over him as they drew nearer into the building’s shadow, which he supposed was probably the intention of its unnamed architect. 

He breathed a sigh of relief when they passed under the massive arch at the end of the bridge. They were in a circular courtyard, open to the sky and ringed with arches. A massive, benevolent-looking statue stood at the far end with arms upraised, and in front of the statue, centered in the courtyard, a well of what Rumarin could only assume was pure magicka hummed. A column of light emanated from the well, disappearing into the gray sky. He had to resist the urge to pinch himself— he was standing in the courtyard at the College of Winterhold.

A few small groups of people stood clustered in various corners of the square, heads bent close in discussion. No one glanced twice at them as Rumarin followed Blaise across the courtyard and inside through a heavy set of double doors. 

Rumarin pushed back his hood and shucked off his gloves, his skin tingling as he adjusted to being out of the cold. There were several doors leading off of the anteroom they were standing in, but Blaise strode straight across the room from the entry door, ushering them into a huge, round chamber. Another well of magicka hummed softly, the central column of light casting the room in a harsh, cold glow. 

A cluster of what Rumarin supposed must be students were standing nearby. Blaise strode up to them. “Pardon, but can you direct me to the Arcanaeum?” 

The nearest figure turned around. A Khajiit with tawny fur and striking blue eyes peered at them imperiously from within a deep mage’s cowl. “You just missed it,” he said, casting an appraising eye over Blaise’s armor and Rumarin’s mage robes. “The door is in the anteroom, on your left on the way out. You’re new here, aren’t you? J’zargo has not seen you here before.” There was a speculative note in his deep voice. 

“Thank you,” said Blaise abruptly, turning away. 

“Wait— do you know where I might find Mirabelle?” Rumarin cut in. 

The mage turned to him, taking in his robes. “J’zargo has not seen you around here before, either,” he mused. “You might try the Hall of Attainment. You have to go back outside and enter from the courtyard,” he amended, when Rumarin presumably looked blank at the reference.

Blaise looked restless to move on, so Rumarin thanked the mage and quickly excused himself before he could ask any more questions. He could feel his eyes following them out of the chamber. In the anteroom, he grabbed Blaise’s arm, turning the man around to face him. 

“You didn’t tell me about your wife,” he said, trying and perhaps failing to keep an accusatory note out of his voice.

“I don’t like to talk about it,” Blaise replied tersely, looking anxious to keep moving toward the Arcanaeum. Fortunately it looked like he was too distracted to have noticed Rumarin’s rude tone. 

“Of course, I only meant… I’m sorry,” finished Rumarin lamely. “I’m going to see if I can find this Mirabelle to get my letter, I can find you afterward?” 

“You have no idea what it could be about?” asked Blaise, seeming curious despite his impatience. 

“Not a clue,” said Rumarin. He let go of Blaise’s arm and watched the man push through the door the girl had indicated. Before it swung closed, Rumarin could see a long flight of stone stairs sweeping upward. He heaved a sigh, then turned to go back out into the courtyard, drawing his cloak around himself again. 

There were several doors leading off the courtyard. A distracted-looking older Imperial man waved him in the direction of one of them, and he strode quickly across the icy cobbles. He felt furtive and annoyingly out of place, as if any moment someone would bear down upon him with questions about what exactly he thought he was doing. Blaise’s stoic presence had been an anchor, giving him a plausible excuse to be where he clearly didn’t belong, so he was impatient to get his hands on this mysterious letter and find him again.

The Hall of Attainment turned out to be another smaller, circular hall with a magicka well in the center. The bright beam of energy as well as bracketed torches around the perimeter illuminated multiple arched doorways leading away. One door to Rumarin’s right was ajar, and he could see the edge of an unmade bed through the opening. This must be the mages’ quarters. 

He had no idea what to do next. The idea of knocking on each door in turn to ask after Mirabelle caused a cold sweat to break out along his hairline. Before he had a chance to panic, however, a short Breton woman with chin-length dark hair bustled down a dark staircase he hadn’t noticed before, halfway around the chamber. She had a stack of papers tucked under her arm and was wearing mage robes. When she caught sight of Rumarin, she called out, “Can I assist you with something? I don’t believe I have seen you before.” 

Rumarin walked toward her. “Actually, I’m looking for someone named Mirabelle.” 

“Yes, I’m Mirabelle. And to whom am I speaking?”

Rumarin blinked in surprise and relief. “Oh, that’s— Nice to meet you. My name is Rumarin. The bridge guard— Faralda?— said you might have a letter for me.” 

Mirabelle’s eyes widened in astonishment. “Well! I have to admit, I thought that letter was a mistake. It has been on my desk for several months now, and only just yesterday I almost threw it in the fire. What a strange twist of fate that you should come asking about it today.” 

She studied Rumarin for a moment, taking in the mage robes. He rubbed the back of his neck self-consciously under her scrutiny. “Who are you? Why did you receive a letter here? You aren’t a student, and none of the faculty had heard your name before.” 

Rumarin spread his hands in sheepish bewilderment. “Your guess is as good as mine. I’m only here by coincidence, accompanying my traveling companion. I don’t even know who would have sent it.” 

Mirabelle made a sound of suspicion, shifting her papers to the other arm. “Well, maybe the contents will help clarify the situation. I’ll go and get it— wait here.”

She disappeared back up the stairs, leaving him alone again. He leaned against the edge of the parapet, listening to the faint humming coming from the column of light. Now that he had resolved his quandary, he was free to mull over the astonishing new information he had collected. Blaise had been married to a great mage, great enough that her name was known all the way in Skyrim and was enough to grant them unquestioned access to the secretive College of Winterhold. And she had died, leaving him a young widower.

Some of the cryptic comments Blaise had made about his connections at the College made more sense now. He wondered how long it had been since Rachel had died. There was a shameful little part of him that felt wounded that Blaise had not seen fit to confide in him, but as soon as the thought occurred to him he forced it down savagely. It wasn’t as if he’d personally been very forthcoming, either.

At that moment, Mirabelle reappeared on the stairs and a moment later she was handing him a folded piece of paper. It was sealed crudely with a flat red wax stamp. 

He looked at it curiously for a moment, then slid his thumb under the wax seal and unfolded the letter to read.

_Rumarin,  
  
I have sent copies of this letter to many places in Skyrim, hoping that you should chance upon it, since I hadn’t the faintest idea how to reach you. I hope this finds you well. Florian and I are alive, and have been looking for you since the attack on the caravan. I have information for you that Otero wished for me to pass on in the event of his death. Come to the Bards’ College in Solitude and I will explain.  
  
Silas_

He stared down at the letter, shock and wonder coursing through him. It felt as if the world had tilted slightly on its axis. In this new reality, Silas and Florian were alive. He wasn’t the only one left of his family. Dawning joy mixed with terrible sadness welled painfully in his chest. He took a shuddering breath, realizing he had been holding it. 

He looked up to find Mirabelle eyeing him curiously. “Is it good news?” 

“Yes,” said Rumarin faintly. “Yes, it’s good news.”

She looked like she wanted to ask another question, but seemed to think better of it. “Well, I’m glad it finally found its intended recipient,” she said before nodding to him and excusing herself. 

Rumarin retreated numbly down the stairs, his mind racing. That Florian and Silas had survived the attack was miraculous, and the news had briefly overshadowed what else was in the letter. Whatever information Otero wanted him to have must be either very sensitive or too extensive to put in a letter, perhaps both, or Silas could have just written it out. 

He felt a strange lump in his throat, remembering the farewell he and Florian had shared the last time he had left the troupe. There was no way they could have known it would be their last, but somehow years had gone by, and of course the memory had taken on a poignant weight after Rumarin had learned about the attack. There had been nights, early on, where he’d awoken from dreaming with wet cheeks and no recollection of tears. To this day, there had been no one else who could make him laugh the way Florian could. He was alive. All these years, he’d been alive. 

A slow-burning, confused ache settled into his chest as he passed back across the courtyard and turned toward the Arcanaeum. He paused for a moment at the top of the stairs, leaned against the cold stone wall to try vainly to still his racing heart. It was all too much. He closed his eyes, grateful for the shadows and the sturdiness of the stones against his back. He couldn’t seem to draw a full breath. Florian’s face swam against his closed eyelids, golden curls familiar as a favorite song. How long had Silas been sending these letters? Had they given up, or assumed he didn’t care, when he didn’t appear? 

He was spiraling. There was only one thing to do, which was the same thing he always did when confronted with confusing feelings he didn’t know how to deal with. He pushed himself off the wall, slapped his face a few times, shook himself out. “Plenty of time to wallow in angst later,” he told himself sternly. Distraction was the recipe. And nothing humbled a man like stepping into a hallowed chapel of great magical enlightenment, he thought grimly. 

Rumarin was no scholar, but as soon as he stepped out of the stairwell into the Arcanaeum, he could feel the solemn, reverent atmosphere of the place. The ceiling high above disappeared into shadow, and soft, muted light streaming in from the massive leaded glass window to his left illuminated sparkling motes of dust in the air. Rows of shelves and locked cabinets lined the walls. To his right, the chamber opened into a large circular space, buttressed with arching stone columns that curved overhead to meet in a central dome. He’d called it correctly— this was definitely a temple. 

And there was the supplicant he was looking for, seated at a wooden table near the center of the room, a stack of books beside him. He was conversing with a gruff-looking elderly Orsimer man in brown mage robes. Rumarin approached with the same trepidation he had felt since setting foot in this place, and Blaise glanced up at the sound of his footsteps on the stone. He looked troubled, brows knitted together, but his face smoothed when his eyes fell on Rumarin. The sight sent a little spike of something warm through him. The sensation was welcome, an anchor to cling to in stormy seas.

“Did you get your letter?” Blaise asked as Rumarin slid into the other chair at the table. 

Rumarin held up the folded piece of paper before slipping it into a pocket in his robes. “From an old friend. Turns out he sent copies of it all over Skyrim, so it was just coincidence that this was the first copy that reached me.” 

“Good news?”

“I’ll tell you later,” said Rumarin. He carefully avoided thinking about the contents of the letter again, but nevertheless, a weight shifted in his chest.

Blaise turned back to the elderly Orc. “Rumarin, this is Urag gro-Shub, the librarian here.” Urag inclined his head gruffly to Rumarin. “Thank you for the help,” said Blaise to Urag then, gesturing to the books. 

“If I may ask, what is your interest in Movarth Piquine?” said Urag. “The only known mention of him is in the book Immortal Blood, which you have there, and of which you were previously unaware. Where did you hear the name?”

“I… met him,” said Blaise reluctantly. 

Urag looked surprised, but seemed to take him at his word. “Did you, now. I wouldn’t have suspected he was a real person. The tale reads like fiction. Moreover, if he is, and he’s alive now… I suppose that means he was turned?” At Blaise’s short nod, he continued. “That book is from the Second Era, so he must be over six hundred years old. This is a surprising revelation, given the… circumstances of his life and death.” 

“What do you mean?” asked Blaise.

“I’ll let you read it, and then we can talk. Take care— you hurt that book, and I will hurt you,” he said menacingly, retreating to a large wooden desk nearby. If the old man hadn’t been so scary looking, Rumarin would have thoroughly appreciated the abrupt shift from genteel scholar to brute. The old Orc had a flair for drama— he could respect that. 

Blaise sat back in his chair, running his fingers absently over the cover of the book in front of him before raising his eyes to Rumarin’s. “I have some reading to do. There’s an inn in town, the Frozen Hearth— I can meet you there tonight?” 

Rumarin sighed with relief. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to help, but he didn’t think he would be able to focus. His morbid interest in the mysterious vampire intrigue they’d uncovered was eclipsed by his own discoveries, and he was feeling a little wrung-out. The fact that he was even considering sticking around was a testament to his surprising level of investment in this strange story he had found himself wrapped up in. Or maybe it was more about Blaise. Plenty of time to mull over that later. 

He debated for only a second before pushing his chair back and standing up. The loud scraping noise made Urag glance over sharply. He raised his hands in an apologetic gesture. The Orc certainly was cranky. Keeping his voice down, he turned to Blaise. “The Frozen Hearth sounds cozy. I’ll meet you there later, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Immortal Blood" has always been one of my favorite in-game books (it's in both Oblivion and Skyrim). It reads like a novel rather than a reference book, which I always thought was fun— reading a "novel" for entertainment inside a video game.


	5. Widower

Rumarin was sitting by the fire with a cup of wine, boots propped up on the edge of the hearth and his long hair spread over the back of the chair to dry. He’d had a bath and a hot meal, and it was amazing how much better he felt already. The hour was growing late, and there was still no sign of Blaise. The inn was mostly empty, which didn’t really surprise him given the sad state of the town. The only other occupant besides a few subdued-looking mage types was a little girl Rumarin supposed was the innkeeper’s daughter, chasing a mangy dog around the hearth in circles.

Freshly washed and snug by the fire though he might be, his thoughts were still a mess. Usually scrubbing off the dirt of the road was a soothing experience— he did enjoy being clean, a fact that had often been mocked as prim and unbefitting of an adventurer by various rugged traveling companions— but he had been too intent on finishing quickly and returning to the tavern to enjoy it, anticipating that Blaise might come back and disappear into his room while he was occupied. What a difference a few days could make. If he had gotten that letter when he had been passing through Windhelm, not even a rampaging giant could have kept him from haring off to Solitude immediately, but here he was with a knot in his stomach.

He had decided to wait up for Blaise, no matter how late he returned to the inn, to see what he would have to say. No need to make any decisions immediately, Rumarin told himself. And besides, he had no idea where Blaise would go next, or even if he would want Rumarin along, so he’d best just focus on his own problems and see what came. Sighing heavily, he took a deep drink of his wine. 

“Penny for your thoughts?” piped up the little girl, having corralled the dog. She was crouched down beside the hearth, aggressively scratching the mangy thing’s belly as it lay splayed on the stone floor, tongue lolling comically. Her eyes were bright as she peered up at him.

Rumarin smiled at the expression on her face, a pantomime of thoughtful seriousness. She looked to be about eight, if his guess was right. He had a soft spot for children. “I’m afraid I don’t have much use for a penny, but I’d take a joke, if you know one?”

The little girl pursed her lips for a moment, frowning. After a moment, her eyes lit up. “Why won’t the clam share his treasure?”

Rumarin made a show of thinking for a minute. “Perhaps he can’t _sea_ a good reason to?” 

“Because he’s shellfish!” She puffed out her chest triumphantly. 

He laughed heartily, slapping his knee as if it were the funniest thing he’d ever heard. She looked extremely pleased with herself. “Your turn!” 

Rumarin raised an eyebrow mischievously. “What’s brown and sticky?” 

The girl made a scandalized face, but then giggled. She clapped her hands over the dog’s ears. “That’s not a very polite joke. Snowberry shouldn’t hear that.” 

“What’s impolite? It’s a stick! A stick, my lady. Get your mind out of the privy.” He put on an affronted look. “How could you think I would profane delicate ears with such foul talk? Come now.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a Breton woman wearing the cowl of a mage slide into the seat next to him. Yet another mage. Come to think of it, fewer mages was one attractive upside to moving on from this place quickly. 

After the little girl’s giggles subsided, she peered up at him curiously. “Why do you have very long hair, but a very short beard?” 

Rumarin made a face as if impressed by the query. “Good question. I don’t really like facial hair all that much. In fact, I used to have no beard at all, but then it grew on me.” 

The child looked skeptical, but after a minute, an appreciative chuckle came from the Breton mage. “Come now, Deirdre, didn’t you catch his joke?” 

Narrowing her eyes, the little girl appeared to consider him for a minute, then rolled her eyes exaggeratedly and heaved an enormous sigh. “Ha, ha,” she said. She stood up, brushing off her dress. The dog scrambled awkwardly to its feet as well, barking excitedly. “I think he’s hungry,” she remarked to Rumarin. “Maybe he heard you say ‘stick’.” Leaning down to the dog, she slapped her knees. “Come on, Snowberry, let’s get dinner!” The two of them scampered off, disappearing behind the bar.

Rumarin watched them go, feeling a bit cheered despite himself. It had been too long since he had spent any time around children. They didn’t take anything too seriously. Or maybe it was that everything was serious to them, and so therefore, nothing was. Regardless, he thought resignedly, feeling the Breton mage’s eyes upon him, he felt far more at home entertaining children than talking about nothing with adults, that was for sure. 

“Are you a student at the college?” she asked. Her accent was different than Blaise's, but still unmistakably High Rock Breton. Based on the face peering out from her cowl, he could see that she was perhaps in her forties or fifties, though he wasn’t always the best at judging human age. Deep circles shadowed her eye sockets, and her face looked drawn, as if she hadn’t slept in days.

Rumarin sighed. These robes were more trouble than they were worth. He supposed he had been asking for it, wearing them into Winterhold. “No, just passing through. I’m waiting for a friend.” The word passed his lips before he even thought about it.

The mage leaned back in her chair with a faint groan. With a stiff precision, she crossed one ankle over the other and settled her robes across her lap. “There are worse ways to pass the time,” she said. “Deirdre is funny. One would think she might get lonely, seeing as there really aren’t many children in town, but she seems perfectly fine talking to everyone who passes through.” She smiled. “If only we could all remain so resilient.”

Rumarin looked at her curiously. She had none of the pretentious austerity he typically associated with mages. “Are you with the college?”

“No,” she answered. “I’m just visiting. I’m the court wizard of Dawnstar, I suppose.”

“What do you mean you ‘suppose’ you’re the court wizard?” asked Rumarin suspiciously. “Are you, or aren’t you?”

She sighed. “I’m employed by the jarl of Dawnstar, Skald the Elder, but he makes a lot of demands I cannot accommodate. I’m never sure exactly how far he’ll be pushed before he snaps and turns me out of the city.” She seemed resigned to it, not at all guilty or repentant.

Despite himself, Rumarin’s was curious. “What sort of demands?” Perhaps it was something particularly nasty. He could do with some distraction.

“Specifically, he wants me to use Destruction magic to help the cause of the Stormcloaks in the war. He continues to ask me, and I continue to refuse. His stance is that a court wizard is useless if she can’t be relied upon as a weapon, and I disagree. Round and round we go.” She shrugged.

“Disagreeing with the politics of your employer? Seems like a pretty quick way to find yourself out of a job,” said Rumarin, swirling the wine in his cup. 

“It’s not that. I fought in the Great War.” She shook her head sadly. “I cut enough young lives short. I’m not going to do it again. I remember blasting apart young Elven men with fireballs and lightning bolts. They looked just like you,” she added drily, raising an eyebrow to him, but then shivered slightly. “The blood… by Akatosh, the smell of flesh burned and pulled apart by magic— I never want to do that to another soul again.” 

He blanched, partially from the graphic description and partially because of the reference to his racial connection with the Dominion, which he liked to try to forget. “It’s stories like that that make us somewhat unpopular in Skyrim. ‘Us’ including you, a mage, and me, a knife-ear.” 

She smiled, but there was no humor in it. “Yes, well, after that, I became a magical pacifist, if you could call it that. I set aside my Destruction tomes, and now I serve only the peaceful needs of the hold. Healing, that sort of thing.”

“What are you doing in Winterhold, then?” asked Rumarin. 

She stared into her winecup silently for a moment before answering. “Something evil is plaguing Dawnstar. I haven’t been able to make any progress helping the people there, and my letters to the College have gone unanswered, so I came in person to see what help I might be able to find.” 

Interest piqued, Rumarin leaned forward slightly. “What sort of evil?” He felt a bit guilty about being such a voyeur, but it was nice to be reminded that other people had problems too.

Closing her eyes as if against a headache, she tipped her head back against the seat. “Nightmares,” she sighed. “Visions of horror and despair, every night, for every person in the town. No one can get any real sleep. And occasionally someone doesn’t wake. They aren’t dead, just locked in a sort of stupor, unable to awaken.”

Rumarin blanched, imagining going through that night after night. He’d had his share of nightmares. The ones that were bad enough to destroy any semblance of rest had stayed with him for days afterward. Clearly the mage had not been exempt from the nocturnal menace herself— the haggard planes of her face within her cowl seemed carved from stone in the flickering firelight. “I’ll confess, my first instinct was to say something about how dreams are only dreams, even really bad ones, but this… trance sounds unnatural.” 

“Indeed,” said the mage. “My hope is that one of the experts at the College can help me find the source of this scourge, so that I might end it. I can’t help but feel that I am Dawnstar’s only hope— it’s a fishing village, full of industrious people, but few scholars and fewer mages.”

“Have you found any relief now that you’re away from home?”

“Curiously, I have. The first night aboard the ship out of Dawnstar was the same, but the nightmares ceased some distance away from the city. It just makes me more convinced that they stem from an unnatural source. I’ve had my first solid sleep in many days the past few nights, but the horror of those dreams… stays with you,” she said grimly, then drained her winecup. 

They sat in silence for a few minutes, listening to the crackling of the fire. Rumarin didn’t envy her— his sleep was troubled enough without any supernatural evil threat involved. After a moment, the mage leaned forward and pushed herself out of her chair. “It was nice talking to you. I should find my bed. Will you be here long?” 

“I’m… not sure,” said Rumarin truthfully. Creeping anxiety began to gnaw at him again as the letter elbowed to the front of his mind. 

“Well, perhaps we will speak again, then.” Almost like an afterthought, she added, “My name is Madena,” holding out her hand. 

He hesitated, then took it. “Rumarin.” 

“Sweet dreams, Rumarin,” said Madena, a wry twist to her lips, before retreating around the fire and disappearing into one of the guest rooms. 

Rumarin had barely settled back in his chair when the door to the inn opened, admitting a cold blast of wind and a few swirling flakes of snow— and Blaise. He let the door fall closed and stamped his boots, peeling off his gloves. His cheeks were flushed from the cold, making his blue eyes glow in contrast. 

He caught sight of Rumarin then, and made his way over to drop into the mage— Madena’s— recently vacated chair with a sigh. He looked exhausted. Rumarin wordlessly handed him his winecup, and Blaise took it and drained it in one gulp. 

He waved to the barkeep for a refill, then turned to Blaise expectantly. “So? Mystery solved? Let me guess, Movarth was actually an inept vampire hunter who became a pathetic vampire, and he’s only survived six hundred years by hiding in his coffin and drinking only the blood of goats?”

Blaise accepted his drink from the barkeep with a nod. “On the contrary. He was actually quite formidable,” he said. “The book Urag found, Immortal Blood, is the story of how he came to be a vampire. Movarth was studying the creatures under the tutelage of a priest of Stendarr. He was a skilled hand-to-hand fighter, and he tracked multiple different tribes and covens across Tamriel, under the advice of the priest. The only problem was, the priest himself was a vampire— apparently the Cyrodiilic tribe are masters of concealment, very difficult to discern in comparison to regular mortals.” 

“So the teacher took a bite out of the student?” asked Rumarin. An unpleasant thought. 

“That’s what happened. The priest admits it himself— he was the anonymous author of the book. It makes sense— the vampires I encountered when I heard the name for the first time appeared to be genteel Imperials.” 

“Did you learn anything that will help you track him further?” 

Blaise shook his head, frustration flickering across his features. “I need to talk to Urag again tomorrow. I have more questions.” 

He looked so tired. He had dark circles under his eyes, and cheeks that were so obviously hollowed by grief that Rumarin marveled that it hadn’t been clear as day to him before. “Blaise,” he said softly. When the other man met his eyes, he asked, “did Movarth Piquine kill your wife?” 

Blaise’s eyes fluttered closed for just a second, long black lashes standing out against his pale cheeks. Rumarin waited, feeling an awful sympathetic pit in his stomach. “It was two years ago,” Blaise said finally. He considered his cup, then took a drink of wine, then sighed and tipped his head back against the chair. Rumarin watched his throat bob as he swallowed. Afraid that any interruption would upset the delicate balance of the moment, he sat very still, waiting for him to continue.

“We were in Cyrodiil. Rachel had been called back to the Arcane University for the annual Colloquium of the Synod, and I had accompanied her, never having seen her homeland. There were a lot of banquets and seminars, a lot of pageantry.” He waved a hand dismissively. “On the way back to Wayrest, we stopped in Chorrol- her family were wealthy merchants, and they owned a country home just outside the city.

“The cottage was just outside of town, on the edge of the Great Forest. If you’ve never seen it, the Great Forest is massive. The woodsman in me couldn’t resist the opportunity to spend a day hunting in the backcountry, so that's what I was doing on the fourth day out of the Imperial City. I didn’t make it back to the house until late. The minute I walked through the door, I could feel something was wrong.” He paused, taking a deep breath and holding it for a second. His face was still impassive, but Rumarin could feel the tension in him.

“As soon as I stepped into the bedroom and saw her lying there on the bed, I knew she was dead. It was obvious, somehow— I could feel it. There were three of them in there, all huddled around her. I had my knife in my hand, and I remember screaming… I grabbed the poker from the fireplace and I know I got at least one of them across the face with it. It was a mad fight— it’s a miracle they didn’t kill me.” 

He leaned forward in his chair, bracing his elbows on his knees, and opened his eyes, but didn’t look at Rumarin. Instead, he stared at his hands. When he continued speaking, it was toward the floor. 

“I don’t know exactly how it happened, but either something fell into the fire, or I was too rash with the poker, because while I was fighting to get to Rachel and to keep the things away from me, the house caught on fire. As you saw firsthand, vampires don’t like fire, so that drew them out— I chased two of them around the house and into the woods, but it was a fool’s errand. They were too fast, and the moonless night was too dark. I don’t know what happened to the third. By the time I lost them, the house and everything in it were too far gone to be saved.”

He did meet Rumarin’s eyes then, and the pain etched into his face stabbed Rumarin a little. “I remember feeling this searing pain. It was like my own body was being burned alive. I stayed there until morning, until it was ash. I don’t know why.” He took a long drink of wine, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “There was basically nothing left. I couldn’t even find her bones. I suppose it was fitting, after all; we Bretons cremate our dead.” 

Rumarin only looked at him, at a loss for words. Although his face was impassive, Blaise looked utterly wretched. He reached out, hesitant, and placed a gentle hand on Blaise’s forearm. Blaise looked at it, then slowly covered it with one of his own. Rough and callused, but warm, the hand tightened slightly, then released. Rumarin pulled his hand back, suddenly self-conscious, and cleared his throat. “How did you find out the name?” 

“I remember it very distinctly: while trying to avoid the hot poker I was using to fend them off, one of them, a woman, shouted ‘Movarth— time is running short’. The one who responded looked like an Imperial— he was bald, looked to be about in his forties.” He gave a short, mirthless bark of a laugh “Now, of course, I realize he was actually a young six hundred.” 

“I’m assuming you didn’t just continue on your way back home after that,” said Rumarin. 

Blaise snorted. “I tracked them. As soon as it was light, I followed their trail. It was awkward— they traveled by night, and I could only track them by day. They stayed just ahead of me. For several days, I followed them through the southern reaches of the Colovian Highlands. They picked up the Orange Road, and I would have lost them except they savaged a cave of bandits just near the junction with the Silver Road. I eventually lost the trail, south of Bruma, but by then I had a pretty good idea they were headed for Skyrim. 

“I was nearly mad with grief and rage, but I knew that to continue to track them would be a suicide mission in my current state. So, I backtracked to the Imperial City, to ask for help from the Synod. I shouldn’t have bothered,” he growled, with a sharp shake of his head. “Everyone was horribly distraught at the loss of their great prodigy, but I was the only one who wanted to do anything about it. Even her closest colleagues were quick to dismiss her death as a great tragedy, but not something that could be avenged. Oh, there were many resources— the library at the Arcane University is impressive, but without membership in the Synod myself, all I had to go on was the small political weight of my family name, and that didn’t get me very far as a foreign nobleman. As for the School, it is foremost a theoretical research institution— none of my colleagues were the type to embark on a treacherous journey, even for someone they had known and loved.

“The weight of everyone else’s indifference was… heavy. I spent half a year preparing for the journey and working on my swordsmanship with my brother in Wayrest, and then I left for Skyrim. My destination has always been the Arcanaeum and the College— I knew about it as more open-minded than the Synod and more practically-inclined than the School of Julianos. My hope was that they might be less political and more accommodating to someone like me. So far, that expectation has paid off.” 

Rumarin’s head was spinning with all of this new information. He busied himself with a long drink from his winecup while he considered how to respond. When he lowered the cup, Blaise was studying him again. The indelible sadness etched into his face had lessened, and now he mostly looked tired. 

“That’s quite a tale,” he eventually said. Many questions simmered, but he settled on what he thought was a somewhat innocuous one. “Did you say you were a nobleman?” 

A slight grimace. Maybe not such an innocuous question after all. “A minor one. I’m the third son of the Baron of Liancourt.” 

“So this whole time, I should have been referring to you as Lord Blaise?”

“If you ever call me that, I will hurt you.” His stare was too flat for him to be completely serious, but Rumarin laughed and raised his hands in a gesture of surrender all the same. At least the grim cast had receded somewhat from Blaise’s features. 

Blaise took a sip of wine. “It’s an old House, but not a particularly powerful one. In a way, I’m the luckiest one of my father’s sons: Since I’m third in the line of succession to the title, I have never really been bound by the expectations of Breton high society since I’m unlikely to inherit the barony.”

“Not everyone in your position would view it that way,” said Rumarin. His own experience with nobles was relatively limited, but he knew the politics around lines of succession ran deep. “I’m going to have to start taking my role as your court jester more seriously,” he said, draining his winecup. “You’ve got the brains, the brawn, and a title. I need to step it up to carry my weight on this expedition.” 

“Please,” said Blaise, looking pained. “I don’t know why I even mentioned it. It means nothing. I’ve as good as left that life behind.” 

Rumarin clapped him on the shoulder. “Not to worry, Your Eminence. The only—” He cut off, spluttering, face suddenly dripping with water. It took a moment to figure out what had happened. When he realized Blaise had tossed his half-full water cup in his face, he started laughing. “Okay, I deserved that.” Wiping his face on his sleeve, still chuckling, he was gratified to see a small light of mirth dancing in Blaise’s eyes. 

His laughter cut off abruptly with Blaise’s next question. “Your turn. What was your letter about?” 

Wet face suddenly forgotten, Rumarin exhaled. Not exactly what he wanted to talk about right now, but he felt like he owed Blaise some context, coming up for air from so much disclosure at once. 

“Two friends who I had previously thought were dead are alive, and they are at the Bard’s College in Solitude. They have some sort of message for me, and I’m to go meet them.” 

“That sounds like wonderful news,” said Blaise offering a tired half-smile. “Do you have any idea what the message could be?”

Rumarin shook his head. “To tell the truth, I’m… apprehensive about it. It seems like a lot of effort to try to meet up with me in person in Solitude rather than just putting the message in the letter, so it must be something big.”

“When will you leave?” asked Blaise. Rumarin surreptitiously searched his face for any shred of opinion about what he might do, but found nothing. 

“I haven’t made any plans yet,” said Rumarin. “I suppose I’ll ask around tomorrow, try to figure out the easiest way to Solitude and go from there.” 

“That sounds like a good plan,” said Blaise, rolling his neck atop his shoulders with a grimace, “and a good problem for tomorrow. It’s late.” 

And it was. The fire burned low, and most of the other patrons had departed or gone to bed. Rumarin forced down a sour note of disappointment at the brusque way Blaise had taken their assumed parting in stride, without any sign of regret. They stood up, but when Rumarin turned toward the door of his room, Blaise called after him, voice low. “Rumarin.”

Rumarin turned back to look at him. The low firelight flickered across his features, the expression his face unreadable. But then he smiled slightly, and Rumarin’s stomach did a very unmistakable slow roll. “I’m glad you’re here.” 

Rumarin made some sort of witty response that he wouldn’t remember later, then ducked hurriedly into his room, leaning back against the door as it closed behind him. He could feel heat in his cheeks. Mentally, he kicked himself. He had less than zero plan for where to go from here, but this was definitely _not_ part of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Blaise. Only took ~22,000 words to get the real story out of him.
> 
> Also: Enter Madena!! Another of my favorite NPCs. I think I have a weak spot for a strong moral compass...


	6. School Day

The next day, Rumarin somehow found himself seated across from Blaise in the Arcanaeum, paging through _Immortal Blood_ while Blaise questioned Urag on what he knew about vampiric bloodlines and hierarchy. In truth, he was only barely paying attention to the book or the conversation. He kept catching himself staring at Blaise. His hair was tousled from all the times he had run his hands through it, a habit Rumarin was starting to recognize as a sign he was frustrated, or trying to figure out a problem. It was strange to see him out of his boiled leather armor in regular clothes. His shirt, trousers, and overcoat were all in dark, muted colors. The neck of his shirt gaped open just enough to expose a hint of collarbone. Rumarin tried not to stare at it. 

Something imperceptible had shifted between them since last night. He’d been asking himself all morning if he was imagining it, but he didn’t think he was. Blaise seemed less stoic and on-edge, as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. He had sat with Rumarin in the inn that morning, drinking hot tea and discussing his theories that he wanted to investigate today with Urag. It felt like friendship, thought Rumarin, cradling that concept like the precious thing it was, turning it over and over in his mind. 

He tuned back in to what the cranky old librarian was saying. If he was going to sit here and procrastinate making any real decisions, he might as well at least try to be useful. “As you learned yesterday, there are many strains of vampirism— many tribes, scattered around Tamriel. I’ve never heard the names Harkon or Thorvar, but it stands to reason that the vampire you encountered could have been one of the Volkihar. They are the clan native to Skyrim, according to the unnamed priest.”

“He calls them the most powerful tribe, and labels them paranoid and cruel,” said Blaise, leaning over and craning his neck to scan the pages of the book in front of Rumarin. This brought him into very close proximity, and Rumarin desperately tried to ignore the fact that Blaise’s knee was neatly slotted between his. He pulled away a moment later and sat back in his chair, making a note in his leather-bound notebook. “But he also says they dwell beneath frozen lakes and never venture into the world of men, which doesn’t match.” 

Rumarin racked his brain for something to contribute, to distract from the traitorous flush that was undoubtedly creeping up his neck. “Didn’t that vampire— Thorvar?— say something about how Movarth hunted them in the Second Era?” 

“Yes,” said Blaise, tapping his quill against his lips. “That supports the Volkihar theory. He only explicitly mentions tracking vampires from two specific regions other than Cyrodiil, and the Valenwood tribes wouldn’t make sense geographically. So perhaps Thorvar and Harkon are Volkihar vampires. If the unnamed priest is correct and they are the most powerful, then that helps explain Thorvar’s pride and condescension.” 

Urag was standing nearby, mute, listening and stroking his long white beard. Now he spoke. “I’ll admit you’re testing the limits of my knowledge now, boy. I think your next act should be to talk to Phinis Gestor, the master conjurer here at the college. I suspect you’ll find more useful information outside the realm of books.” His lips pursed around his tusks at that, as if he didn’t like admitting out loud that the usefulness of books had limitations. 

Blaise seemed perplexed at being called “boy”, but acquiesced that seeking out Phinis sounded like a good idea. Urag agreed to sell him the copy of _Immortal Blood_ for a reasonable price. A few minutes later Rumarin was leading the way out into the courtyard toward the Hall of Countenance, pleased and also annoyed at being pleased that he was the one who knew where they were going this time. 

“Try not to glare at him too hard,” smirked Rumarin as they climbed the steps to the Hall of Countenance. “I know you hate conjurers and you’re scary when you glare.” Inconvenient blushes aside, he was enjoying this sense of easy companionship today. It was a marvelous distraction from his own brewing existential crisis.

Blaise shot him a look, but he did stop grinding his teeth. “I’ve heard rumors he’s more than that. He’s a necromancer.” 

Rumarin grimaced at that, but didn’t have time to dwell on its unpleasantness before they arrived at a door marked “Phinis Gestor, Conjuration Master”. It was slightly ajar. 

Blaise tapped lightly on the door, and a moment later it opened and brought them face to face with a short Breton man, balding on top and with eyes that were somehow simultaneously sunken and bulbous. “Yes, can I help you?” he said briskly. 

After Blaise described what they were after— in a general, academic sense, of course— Phinis opened the door wider and beckoned them inside. The room was an office, somewhat untidy, with papers and books scattered across a large wooden desk in one corner and an enchanting table glowing softly in the other. Something that looked suspiciously like a human pelvis peeked out from beneath the table. Rumarin tried not to look at it too hard. Phinis sat down in the large chair in front of his desk and steepled his fingers under his chin, studying them. 

“As much as it pains me to say this, the person you probably want is Falion.” His lips twisted around the name. “He was the previous Conjuration master here at the college. He left somewhat unceremoniously last year. He has studied the undead, vampires in particular, at great length.”

“Where is he now?” asked Blaise. 

“Hjaalmarch. Morthal specifically, I believe,” responded Phinis. “From what I understand, his presence there has caused somewhat of a… problem.”

“Let me guess: the resident Nords have their loincloths in a twist over a big bad scary mage in town, mucking up their property value,” offered Rumarin, idly rolling a coin over the backs of his fingers. 

“Crude, but accurate,” said Phinis, eyeing Rumarin with something between curiosity and distaste. “Falion is the only conjurer outside the college in Skyrim who is public about what he does, so one could say he brings it upon himself.” He sniffed. 

Rumarin was itching to get out of the office and away from that pelvis, so he was relieved when Blaise thanked Phinis for the information and they made their way back outside to the courtyard. They pulled up short beside the brazier just outside the door, breath puffing in the cold air. “So, looks like you’ve got your next point of contact,” said Rumarin to Blaise. “To Morthal?” 

“To Morthal,” agreed Blaise. “Have you thought any more about what you will do with your letter?” 

Rumarin’s fingers involuntarily dipped into his pocket to touch the letter where it sat. He’d read it at least a dozen times already, but he couldn’t seem to stop worrying at it. Its edges were already worn. “Actually, I had an idea. There isn’t any good road access from Winterhold to the west, and it’s colder than a draugr’s balls up here anyway, so I think the best move is to take ship for Dawnstar. That will get me closer to Solitude, and you closer to Morthal.” And conveniently delay the decision point for when he would have to actually make up his mind about what to do and when. 

“It makes sense on the map, but there’s no regular port traffic out of Winterhold. It’s also getting late in the year for sailing this far north— I’d be surprised if many sailors are willing to risk getting trapped in pack ice.”

“And this is the part where you’re really impressed with my networking skills,” said Rumarin, holding up a finger. He told Blaise about his conversation with the mage Madena the night before at the Frozen Hearth, including the nightmares. “I’m not sure how long she will be here, but I bet we could sail back with her when she leaves. We’d be walking right into… whatever is going on in Dawnstar, though.” 

“If she can’t find a solution, we’ll likely have to walk right into it anyway,” said Blaise grimly.

Rumarin nodded, resigned. “There’s no good route to Morthal from here that doesn’t involve passing through Dawnstar, unless we want to loop far enough south to double or triple the total distance, or do some serious off-roading through the mountains which I don’t recommend. So I guess we take our chances with the nightmares, and hope Madena finds some answers.” 

“There’s a Restoration lecture being held in the Hall of the Elements after lunch,” said Blaise. “We might intercept her there, if she’s a healer like you say.” 

Rumarin sighed dramatically, assuming a put-upon expression. “If I’d known it was going to be a _school day_ , I would have stayed at the inn,” he grumped. 

*** 

An hour later, Rumarin found himself standing beside Blaise in the Hall of the Elements at the back of a sizable gathering of students and college faculty, most of them wearing mage robes. The low murmur of the crowd echoed in the round chamber. Rumarin fidgeted slightly, shuffling his feet. He would rather be almost anywhere else at the moment. Was it his imagination, or did people keep turning around to stare at them?

He turned to needling Blaise in order to distract himself. “Don’t look now, but blue mage robes two rows back keeps looking at you like you’re a piece of meat and she hasn’t eaten in days,” muttered Rumarin, leaning in close. 

He shouldered Rumarin away. “She’s not my type,” he murmured out of the side of his mouth. “And besides, what makes you so sure she’s not looking at you?” 

Rumarin brushed that off, but then raised an eyebrow and took the opportunity to ask casually, “What _is_ your type?” Blaise looked at him askance and seemed about to reply, but at just that moment, the drone of the crowd died down as a small, wiry, light-haired Breton woman stepped up on a raised dais before the crowd, hands folded in front of her. Rumarin’s jaw tightened. Unfortunate timing— he really wanted to know the answer to that question.

“Greetings, colleagues. I am Colette Marence, the resident expert in Restoration magic here at the College. Before I delve into the specific topic of this lecture, I would like to remind everyone, once again, that Restoration is indeed a valid school of magic. It is absolutely worthy of research. Anyone suggesting that Restoration is better left to the priests of the Temples, I think, is forgetting a few things.” She stared out over the crowd, chin held high and eyes blazing.

“Defensive, much?” muttered Rumarin. This was not the type of dry condescension he expected from a College instructor.

Colette continued speaking, holding up a slender finger. “Firstly, the ability to repel the undead cannot be ignored. Skyrim is well known to be full of draugr, ancient Nord warriors who cannot find peace. I submit that everyone in this College has, at one time or another, relied on one of the Restoration spells that can keep them at bay. Secondly...”

Rumarin stopped listening. Listening to this self-justifying diatribe was... uncomfortable. He let his eyes wander around the crowd. Dark mage robes on all sides, pointed ears on one in three. He felt his hackles rise, but wouldn’t have been able to articulate why. If someone had offered him a bet a few months ago that he’d be standing in the back of a lecture at the College of Winterhold right now, he would have bet everything he owned out of certainty that it would never come to pass. And yet, here he was. 

Momentarily, apparently content that her detractors were sufficiently cowed, Colette gave a short, satisfied nod and paused a moment for a drink of water before moving on to the central topic of her presentation. The moment of quiet startled Rumarin out of his rumination. Next to him, Blaise wore an expressionless mask of perfect attention.

“Like all forms of magic, Restoration, while extremely powerful and useful, is bound by certain natural laws. Consider specifically the subset of the school of Restoration that deals with healing maladies of the body. When a skilled practitioner of Restoration magic performs healing, what she is actually doing is using her magicka as a conduit to focus the life energy, the inherent magicka, of the patient. In a very specific targeted way, in the same way that a mirror can focus light, she enhances the natural regenerative power of the body.

“This is only a theory, but it has been well supported by years of experimentation both here at the College and abroad. It explains why there are certain limitations to the power of healing magic: Only injuries that would theoretically be able to heal naturally can be healed using Restoration magic. For example, one cannot re-grow a severed limb, so the same cannot be accomplished using magic.

“This is not so different from the limitations on, for example, Alteration magic: one cannot alter the immutable physical laws of Mundus. But I digress...”

Rumarin let the lecture fade into the background of his attention again as he studied the crowd. Sure enough, he spotted Madena on the fringes, seemingly listening with rapt attention. Her hood was down, and the cold light filtering in through the tall leaded-glass windows graced the high planes of her cheeks, the aquiline curve of her nose. She had the same forehead crease as Blaise, but he noticed she looked a little less wan today, as if she had had a good night’s rest.

She had come up in his thoughts several times after their conversation the night before. It seemed like an odd coincidence that he should meet another person so obviously driven by a need for redemption. Or was it odd? Was every person on the same path, in some way? Madena and Blaise both carried their personal guilt so differently. While Blaise was a taut bowstring aimed with precision, Madena had thrown herself into a vast and indeterminate sea of altruism. She was paying her debt by turning herself from a weapon into a tool of healing. It was hard not to call to mind an image of himself as aimless vagabond, running from his own demons by following Blaise around in the hope that some of his strength might rub off. Pathetic.

He was jolted from his dark thoughts by the loud ringing of applause in the domed room. The lecture had concluded, and students were clustering around the dais with questions for Colette. When he raised his head to look around, he found Blaise looking at him, waiting for direction.

Plenty of time for self hatred later, he told himself. Rumarin gestured toward Madena, leading Blaise around the outside of the room to where she was standing near the window talking to an elderly Imperial wizard. He waited until the wizard bowed his head and retreated, leaving Madena alone, and then approached with Blaise in tow. 

“Hello Madena,” said Rumarin brightly, inclining his head. “Good to see you again. Might I introduce my traveling companion, Blaise Silane?” 

Madena’s eyes widened briefly in surprise, presumably at encountering him inside the College after he had told her he had no business there, but then her gaze cut to Blaise and recognition dawned. “I had heard the widower of Rachel Silane was visiting the College, but I did not expect to encounter him personally.” She smiled, then added, “You probably don’t remember me, but we have actually met once before— I attended the Colloquium some few years ago and had a lovely conversation with your late wife at dinner.” She bowed her head slightly. “My condolences— she was a remarkable mage.” 

“Thank you,” said Blaise, a little stiffly. “I’m sorry I don’t recall, but honestly those symposia were very much Rachel’s world. I’m sure the dinner was indeed lovely.” He shrugged uncomfortably, then took a breath and let it out, quickly, before changing tack. “Rumarin tells me you are here from Dawnstar?”

“I am,” she acceded. “Am I correct in my assumption that you are a recent transplant from High Rock? I recognize the Iliac Bay on your tongue. My own family is from Evermore.” 

Blaise’s face relaxed a little and he favored her with a small smile, looking gratified. It must be nice to meet someone who knew his homeland, realized Rumarin. And she had met Blaise before, including his late wife— even if Blaise didn’t quite remember. A strange coincidence. He listened to the two of them exchange pleasantries for a few moments, and at the next lull, cut back in. “Last night, you said you sailed from Dawnstar. I assume you will be returning via the same route?” 

Madena gave him a curious glance. “Yes, I plan to sail day after next. My search has been less fruitful than I had hoped, but I can’t stay away for too long.” She pursed her lips. “The weather seems to be holding, so it seems best to depart now with haste rather than risk the volatility of the ice floes as the season progresses.” 

Now Blaise interjected. “Is there any possibility that we might accompany you on your vessel? We have business in the west, and as you know, there is no good over-land route that doesn’t involve trekking over the mountains, which I’d like to avoid this time of year.” 

Madena looked surprised, but only for a moment. “Sure, I see no problem. There’s a spare cabin available. It’s not the most comfortable ship, but it was built for sailing these icy waters safely. Your safety once we cross into Dawnstar, however...” She trailed off. 

“We’ll have to take our chances with the nightmares,” said Rumarin firmly. Madena’s eyes darted to Blaise. When he didn’t react, Rumain watched her decide to take them on, resigned that they knew what they were getting into. “Day after next, then.” 

Relieved, he smiled. “You should join us for dinner at the Frozen Hearth tonight. My treat,” he added quickly, seeing Blaise’s eyes narrow. It should be galling that he still felt beholden to seek Blaise’s approval for every decision he made even though his contract, such as it was, had ended a couple days ago, but somehow he felt fine about it. He rationalized that it must be his discomfort at still being very much under the protection of Blaise’s good name and patronage to even be allowed entrance here. Seemed reasonable, under the circumstances.

As they retreated toward the entry hall, Blaise grumbled, “I’m not much of one for social engagements.” 

Rumarin winced. That made sense, truth be told. He hadn’t really been thinking when he had extended the invitation. “It’s the least we can do. Allow me to shoulder the brunt of the entertaining. It’s a burden I’m willing to bear.” He smiled beatifically, hoping to undercut the awkwardness he’d already created. 

Blaise sighed, puffing a cloud into the cold air as they pushed through the doors into the courtyard, drawing up their hoods. “It’s not personal. It’s just…”

“...that drinking wine and socializing disrupts your image as the surly brooding guy?” 

“What? No—” Blaise protested.

“...that all you want to do is be left alone with your dark thoughts, because you’re allergic to fun?”

“Rumarin, _no_ ,” said Blaise, a little more forcefully. “Being here, surrounded by brilliant mages, reminds me of a bygone era. I’m not that person anymore, and it… I don’t like to pretend,” he gritted out. He shot a pointed glance at Rumarin as they stepped out onto the bridge. “You wait— she’ll want to talk about Rachel.”

Rumarin subsided solemnly, feeling a pang of chagrin even as relief washed over him at approaching the outer limits of the University grounds. He hadn’t thought about that. “I can understand that. But if there’s one thing I’m good for, it’s keeping any situation from being too serious. We have nothing better to do tonight, anyway, and I’d much rather drink wine with you and this court wizard who already proved that she’s a good conversationalist than rub elbows at the College with a bunch of ‘brilliant’ mages.” He bit off the word with disdain. 

They were halfway across the bridge by now, cloaks clutched tight against the icy wind. “Why are you so defensive around the mages?” asked Blaise. The exasperation in his voice had been replaced with cautious curiosity.

Rumarin stalked along in silence, keeping an eye on the distance to either guardrail on the exposed bridge as the wind buffeted him. He could almost hear it now, dredged up by Blaise’s question. ‘Isn’t every High Elf some sort of magic prodigy? What went wrong with you?’ He shook his head in irritation. Even Blaise had said something of the sort when they had first met- _‘I’ve never met a non-mage Altmer before.’_

He turned over several possible responses in his head, then reluctantly settled on honesty. He probably owed it to the guy at this point. “Mages love to question my lack of skill. Let’s just say I’ve had several too many unpleasant interactions with people who think they’re being funny by pointing out the fact that I’m an anomaly to my own race. Forget that almost every other Altmer I’ve ever met is a pretentious asshole.” He snorted. “Truth be told, people typically seem more interested in mocking me than providing any useful suggestions, so yes, I suppose I’m a bit prejudiced against mages.” 

Since he was aiming for honesty, he added with a grimace, “I’m partly to blame for their perception.” 

“Why do you blame yourself?” asked Blaise.

He sighed, rolling his eyes. _Here we go, might as well go all in on the humiliating admissions._ “Well, to be honest, I have been known to encourage people to think I’m a mage. As mortifying as it is to admit, it makes me feel better about myself. Especially with children. Mostly because they’re the easiest to fool. Which led to one of my more embarrassing moments.” He winced. “I was showing a few children some tricks, and of course they thought I was a mage. I was just about finished when another child came rushing toward me, crying her eyes out. Her mother had been kidnapped by bandits. They other children told her not to worry. Rumarin the mage would come to the rescue. Looking into their eyes, I didn’t have the heart to say no.”

“What’s the problem? You could wipe the floor with a few bandits.” An annoying spike of pleasure surged through him at the praise.

“Maybe now, but back then I was just a jester with a flower up my sleeve. That’s why I…ended up gathering what little coin I had, and paid the kidnappers’ ransom.”

Feeling heat in his cheeks despite himself, he stole a sideways glance at Blaise. He wore a small smile, but Rumarin couldn’t discern whether it was mocking or merely amused. “I doubt that was easy for you,” he said.

Rumarin sighed. “No, it wasn’t. That night, I opened my rucksack and started throwing away my things. They were as useless as I was.” He couldn’t keep the slight edge of bitterness from his voice. That feeling he remembered was still uncomfortably familiar. “But when I got to the bottom, I found something I never knew was there. A gift from Otero- one last jester’s trick. It was a spell tome for a bound sword.” He shrugged. “I’ve relied on it ever since.”

As their feet touched down on solid ground in Winterhold at the end of the bridge, he turned to see Blaise looking at him out of the cowl of his hood, calculating, but not contemptuous. 

Rumarin felt his flush deepening. It wasn’t fair that the wind-whipped rosiness in Blaise’s own cheeks made his blue eyes stand out even more. 

“Why do you think Otero gave you the spell tome?” asked Blaise.

Shrugging again, he replied, “Probably out of guilt. Like I told you the first night we met, I wanted to be an adventurer ever since that day with the bandits. But Otero was never willing to teach me how to fight. Maybe he thought it would make me too serious. Or maybe he just wanted to protect me. I suppose when I left the troupe, he realized the tome was the only way he could.” He schooled his voice to nonchalance, forcing down the awful mix of emotions that dogged him like an old wound.

“Well, one thing is for sure,” said Blaise, as they climbed the steps to the inn, stamping his boots to knock the snow off. “It definitely didn’t make you too serious.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of the Restoration magic theory lecture is my own headcanon, but I'm sure I picked up bits and pieces from other people's brains while lurking around on r/teslore so... thank you to the anonymous conglomeration of internet brains who influenced my ideas. In other news, Colette Marence is exhausting but I also kind of want to write a spin-off fic about how she got so paranoid and defensive. 
> 
> That piece of Rumarin's dialogue/backstory about paying the bandits' ransom is 3dNPC canon, and it was one of his character's tidbits that cemented my affection for him & indirectly led to me deciding to write this fic. He's really such a layered character.


	7. Chrysalis

Several hours later, Rumarin, Blaise, and Madena sat around a table in the corner of the Frozen Hearth. A steaming platter between them held a leg of goat roast, a double handful of tiny roasted potatoes, a heel of bread, and a tureen of boiled bitter greens. Madena gestured toward him with a pitcher of wine, and he slid his cup toward her. “How did you pass the rest of your afternoon?” he asked.

“Most of my appointments are tomorrow morning, so I mostly spent the afternoon in the library thinking about Colette’s lecture,” she replied, spearing a potato on the end of her knife. “Her style is unorthodox, but I found her insights to be valuable. Most of my previous experience studying Restoration has been much more practical in nature, but without a solid understanding of the theory, there is only so far you can go.”

Blaise nodded in agreement, carving a piece of meat off of the roast. “I thought it was appropriate that the lecture walked the line between theory and practical application. If I had to guess, Colette Marence probably doesn’t feel like she can afford to focus on pure theory when given the opportunity to address such a wide audience, based on how… protective she clearly is of the Restoration school. She would want to make sure the usefulness of Restoration magic was front and center.” 

“Which is a shame,” replied Madena, “because I was fascinated by her comments on the limitations of healing, and her analogy to similar limitations in other schools of magic.” 

“I’ll admit those are the lectures I find the most interesting, when a master is willing to publicly draw analogies between the schools,” said Blaise. “There are so many self-imposed boundaries among the scholars that restrict the potential for innovation in the modern study of magic. This tendency for experts to define themselves foremost by their school of study is a limiting perspective.” 

Rumarin had been eating quietly, observing this exchange. Most of it was going straight over his head, but at Blaise’s last comment, he sat up straighter. “Wait a minute, are you saying that the schools of magic aren’t real?” He didn’t know much about magic, all things considered, but every mage he had ever met defined him or herself primarily based on preferred school.

Blaise looked over at him. “Not that they aren’t real, but they’re deliberate constructs, not derived from natural laws. They’re like...” he paused for a minute, thinking. “...Organizational tools. Helpful in teaching magic, but less and less relevant as a mage grows in skill. Ironically, the most expert mages are often the most stubborn when it comes to rigidly categorizing their achievements.” He raised an eyebrow. “If you’ve achieved the title of Master Illusionist, you’d expect your work to be hailed as evidence of your skill with Illusion.” 

Madena was nodding along. “Here’s an example: What type of spell is Invisibility?” 

Rumarin took a bite of potato, thinking. “I’m not really a mage, so I’m not terribly familiar with most spells, and I don’t think you would be asking me this if it wasn’t a trick question, but I’ll play along. I would guess it would be categorized as Illusion magic.” 

Madena smiled. “You’re right, it is a trick question. There are multiple ways to achieve the same effect. The categorization of the spell is based on the method of creating the effect. Do you convince your observer that they are seeing something they aren’t— that would be Illusion— or do you change the way light bends around you, which would be Alteration? Both effects are the same: you appear invisible.” 

“I suppose it could come down to whichever is easier,” said Rumarin, grudgingly fascinated. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Blaise looking at him. Was he hiding a smile? 

“Usually, the more advanced the magic user, the more creativity is able to manifest in the spellcraft,” said Blaise. “That is what Madena was referring to when she brought up the importance of foundational understanding of the theory. The actual spellcasting is the practical arm of magic scholarship, but furthering our understanding of the nature of magic itself is the frontier.” 

So much for Blaise’s claims not to be a scholar. He was clearly perfectly at home discussing aspects of magical theory that seemed very esoteric to Rumarin. He also hadn’t missed that Madena fell still and listened closely every time Blaise opened his mouth. She spoke up now, and her tone was almost deferential. 

“I hope it isn’t a painful reminder, but in my opinion, that’s why the magical community was so enraptured by Rachel’s work,” said Madena slowly. “That frontier has seemed much more accessible in recent years because of her.”

Rumarin shot a glance at Blaise, expecting a flat stare and a topic change. He eyed Rumarin, the ‘I told you so’ clear in his face, but surprisingly he just nodded. “Almost everything I’m saying can realistically be attributed to her. She was the boundary-pusher, I was the pragmatist.”

“When I first read her thesis on the use of calming Illusion magic to augment Restoration healing, I felt like I’d never read anything quite like it, even as someone who had been studying Restoration magic for almost as long as she had been alive at that point,” said Madena, shaking her head. “A lot of her ideas seem so obvious in retrospect— except nobody had ever thought of them before.” 

“Was she a healer?” asked Rumarin hesitantly, feeling slightly guilty for using the topic to scratch the itch of his burning curiosity about Blaise’s late wife. 

Blaise hesitated before answering. “She was quite well versed in the healing arts, yes, but in reality I think these were a convenient outlet with plenty of practical opportunities to apply some of the theory she was working on. Outwardly, the focus of her research was on prolonging life. She was…searching for a path to immortality, or at least infinite prolongation of death, through magical means.”

The reluctance of Blaise’s answer, and the irony of Rachel’s own untimely death, hung in the air between them. Blaise studiously looked down at his plate, cutting each of his potatoes neatly into two equal pieces. Madena and Rumarin looked at each other. Clearly there was plenty Blaise wasn't saying, but he wasn't going to be the one to poke. Finally, Madena picked up her cup and took a drink, then cleared her throat. “Like you heard Colette say, Restoration magic is really just redirecting the flow of magicka. It is possible to target specific regeneration processes in the body to theoretically delay aging, if this is done strategically enough. Illusion magic can be used as a multiplier— haven’t you ever heard the saying ‘you’re only as old as you feel’?” 

“In that case, I probably shouldn’t be left unsupervised,” muttered Rumarin. The fact that Blaise’s wife had been studying how to live longer— to great acclaim— just before she was brutally murdered was like something out of a tragicomedy. He didn’t know what to say. 

Surprisingly, Blaise had more to add. He was looking straight across the table at Rumarin. Madena was clearly already intimately familiar with Rachel’s work, so all of this had to be specifically for his benefit, as improbable as that seemed. “Rachel believed that the combination of free will and access to magicka, the ability to exert our willpower upon the world to change it to suit us, was the hallmark of the divine spark. She was fond of referring to man and mer as ‘gods in the chrysalis.’” He sipped his wine, leaning back in his chair. “The driving motivation behind her research was an attempt to elevate human existence based on her fundamental belief in our merit.” 

His voice was flat, matter-of-fact. Rumarin studied him openly, curious about the change in his demeanor. He couldn’t put a finger on it, but something about Blaise’s explanation made him uneasy. He was touching the surface of something— like catching the dark shadow of one’s own reflection in polished metal and being startled by it. Madena had started this whole conversation by describing Rachel’s career as a dazzling foray into the healing arts, but that clearly wasn’t all there was to it. If Restoration magic was sexy enough to give rise to the kind of fame it seemed like Rachel had enjoyed, then Colette Marence wouldn’t have nearly so large a chip on her shoulder. He hadn't imagined it— Blaise had hesitated when he had characterized Rachel as a healer. If her research had been 'outwardly' focused on prolonging life, then what was the undertone he was missing? 

Blaise must have noticed him mulling this over and felt inclined to elaborate, or else just really felt like talking about his late wife after all, because he waved a hand and continued. “Rachel had a sizable measure of ambition and pride,” he acknowledged. “She was smart enough to say the right words to the right people. She didn’t make many friends in the temples, surely, but no one could deny the results of her research.” Rumarin got the distinct impression that Blaise was choosing his words very carefully. 

Madena didn’t seem to have noticed. She was gazing at Blaise, eyes wide. “I did not know that detail,” she said, sounding astonished. “Apotheosis… that sounds almost like Psijic ideology.” 

“Not apotheosis,” corrected Blaise emphatically, gesturing with his knife. “She was always careful to draw that line. I don’t think she was ever really interested in divinity, but rather the power afforded by longevity— power to learn more, to affect more, to create more.” He put the knife down. "Like I said, I think the healing arts were a convenient proving ground for the things she was really interested in. After all, as you may have picked up from Marence today, despite her best efforts, there are plenty of limitations on Restoration magic. The only limit on the power of Illusion is the mind of the caster.”

“The ability of the caster is a limitation present in every use of magic, though," countered Madena. 

Blaise raised an eyebrow. "True, but the creative vagaries of an individual mind are a lot more consequential in complex Illusion magic than in, say, run-of-the-mill Alteration or Restoration. The last thing I'll say on the topic is this: again, more generally, the primary limit on the power of a spellcaster is their strength of will. It's not nearly so simple as a question of the size of one's magicka reserves. On some level, access to magicka is just energetic manifestation of the will of the caster— some experts agree with me on that, some don't. Regardless, if a person's will is the part of them that enables decisive action, then it follows that anything that can manipulate or redirect someone's underlying experience of the world could have profound effects, especially if the subject is a spellcaster." 

Rumarin blinked dubiously. He thought he followed, but this was all quite philosophical. "So, in plainer language, are you saying that a mage can amplify another mage's ability to cast powerful spells by influencing them with Illusion?" The idea put him in mind of a carved piece of crystal he'd seen once that could focus and amplify the brightness of a ray of sunlight until it was almost hard to look at.

Blaise tilted his head, then waved a hand. "That's not far off. How about this: if a powerful mage can convince you, using Illusion, that reality is tenuous, then how much more easily might you be able to exert your will on the world?"

Rumarin’s head was starting to hurt. This was all a little wild. Madena looked thoughtful and a little disturbed. Blaise had leaned forward and braced his forearms on the table, looking at Rumarin expectantly. The expression on his face suggested that he was resigned to having been drawn into this conversation, but would rather be talking about almost anything else. Rumarin could see a tension twitch beginning in his jaw. Regardless that he’d been the one to perpetuate the conversation far beyond what Rumarin would have expected, it was clear he’d reached his limit. It was time to change the subject. 

Things had felt safer when they'd been talking about Restoration, which Madena was clearly passionate about. “The fact that healing magic can extend somebody's lifetime is interesting and all, but I, for one, would never want to live forever,” he said decisively, and it was true. It wasn’t that he spent a lot of time thinking about his own demise, but being alone with his own thoughts for all eternity sounded like utter torture. “I've heard that we Altmer can live several centuries, which is already intimidating to even think about. And anyway, half of the fun of life in Skyrim is knowing that you could get gored by a sabre cat or stumble into the wrong ruin and pulverized by some old Nord dead guy at any minute. Come to think of it, almost getting pulverized by some old Nord dead guy was the momentous event that brought us together,” he said, gesturing to Blaise.

Blaise actually looked grateful for Rumarin’s irreverent interjection for once. “I hardly think two skeletons provided that much of a threat of ‘pulverization’.”

Rumarin shot him a reproachful glance. “Hey, have you ever been inside a real Nordic tomb? Not that little barrow we found near Winterhold, but a real crypt. Turns out that when they’re properly embalmed, big beefcake Nord warriors retain a lot of their... _vigor_...after death...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The phrase "gods in the chrysalis" is from a [poem](https://www.yourpositivereality.com/we-are-gods-in-the-chrysalis-elbert-hubbard/#:~:text=We%20Are%20Gods%20In%20The%20Chrysalis%20%E2%80%93%20Poem,sunshine%3B%20greet%20your%20friends%20with%20a%20smile%2C%20%26) by Elbert Hubbard, which is actually a nice fluffy "think positive!" sort of thing and not about glorifying the divine spark present in all descendents of the Ehlnofey... but you know, potato potato


	8. Dreamweaver

Rumarin stood at the railing on the deck of the _Queen Macalla,_ the oilcloth cloak he had borrowed from Madena’s captain clutched tightly around him to keep out as much of the icy spray as possible. The deck rolled beneath his feet, creaking and groaning as the ship crested each wave. The exposed skin around his eyes felt as if he were being scored by an icy whetstone, but still he clutched the rail in his gloved hands, drinking in the vista as they sped along Skyrim’s northern coast. 

They were blessed with ideal weather, and if all held steady they would reach Dawnstar by evening on the third day, the grizzled old Nord sea captain had told him. The crew had been treating himself and Blaise with the same sort of odd mix of wariness and deference they showed Madena. He could hear the sailors scrambling about, calling to each other over the whistling of the wind and the snapping of the sails. 

Rumarin had never been on a ship of this size before, not on the open sea. He marveled at how fast the ship could move. When they had set sail that morning, it had barely felt as if there were enough wind to propel them. The captain had overheard his incredulous comment to Blaise, and explained how during this season, the easterly winds that swept along Skyrim’s northern coast were as dependable as a well-maintained highway if one knew how to harness them. Still, Rumarin had been braving the icy winds all morning to watch the crew deftly maneuver the ship out of the treacherous ice fields that surrounded the port at Winterhold and make for the open sea. 

He felt rather than saw Blaise step up to the railing beside him, huddled in his cloak. They stood side by side for a time, watching the craggy white peaks of Skyrim’s northern mountains scroll past, swaying as the deck rolled beneath their feet. Eventually, raising his voice above the wind, Blaise said, “You seem awfully content out here for someone who’s spent a lot of time moaning about the frigid air of the northern holds.”

“I’m insulated by my spirit of adventure,” said Rumarin, but the effect was somewhat spoiled by the fact that he had begun to shiver violently. 

Blaise took him by the elbow and steered him toward the ladder down to the cabins, smiling slightly. “Madena invited us to lunch.”

The little dining hall belowdeck was chill and damp. Madena was seated near a small wood-burning stove in one corner, her cowl pooled on her shoulders as she spooned hot stew into three heavy-bottomed ceramic bowls with handles for grasping. A heavy tome with a worn red cover and a thick notebook rested beside her on the table. 

Rumarin slid onto the bench across from her. It was fastened to the deck against the rocking of the waves. She looked up and smiled, faint creases around her mouth deepening as she pushed a steaming bowl across the table toward each of them. “It’s mostly horker meat and potato,” she said. 

“Were you studying?” asked Blaise, nodding toward the books on the table as he accepted his bowl with thanks. He did a double take, squinting at the spine of the heavy red book. “The Book of Daedra?” 

Madena sighed, bracing her elbows on the table top. “The only lead I was able to find at the College came from a side conversation with the Illusion master. He happened to recall that dreams were the particular purview of one of the Daedric lords, and sure enough...” 

She hauled the heavy book toward herself and flipped it open to a page she had marked with a scrap of twine. Scanning the lines of text, she skimmed her finger down the page. “...Vaermina, whose sphere is the realm of dreams and nightmares, and from whose realm issues forth evil omens. Vaermina's plane of Oblivion is Quagmire, a nightmare realm, where every few minutes reality shifts and becomes ever more horrifying.”

“Sounds downright idyllic,” said Rumarin, dragging his spoon through his bowl. The stew was good, thick and hearty. He didn’t even mind the gristle— it seemed appropriate to be eating horker gristle in the belly of an arctic sailing ship. 

Madena raised an eyebrow at him. The expression was an unsettlingly perfect imitation of the one Blaise usually wore when Rumarin said something flippant. “Unfortunately this is more or less all I have— several other sources corroborated that Vaermina is indeed associated with nightmares, but I couldn’t find anyone at the College with more in-depth knowledge.” 

“The jarl is not going to like that,” said Blaise.

“No,” sighed Madena. “I’ve not decided what to do yet. Even the possibility that the nightmares might be attributed to Daedric influence could be enough to start a city-wide panic.”

“What possible interest could the Daedra have in Dawnstar? It’s a small fishing town, isn’t it?” wondered Blaise.

“Who knows why Daedra do any of the things they do?” shrugged Rumarin. “An old Dunmer sellsword who traveled with my troupe for awhile years back said that we are basically insects to them. He sounded like he was speaking from personal experience, so I’m inclined to believe him.” Sadryn had become a great friend of Otero’s that summer, and Rumarin remembered feeling half intimidated and half mesmerized by his grim mannerisms and the angular tattoos winding around his dusky arms. The only experience Rumarin had with Daedra in any capacity were his hazy memories of Sadryn making devotions to Azura every day at dawn and dusk. He had next to no knowledge of Vaermina, though, and based on the description in the book, he was pretty sure he didn’t want to change that.

“Well, if it’s specifically Dawnstar Vaermina wants, Blaise is right that Skald is going to put up a huge fight. He’s a true Stormcloak Nord, and I’m sure the idea that he’s being influenced by Daedric forces he doesn’t understand is going to sit about as well as a splinter under his fingernail.” Madena’s voice had gone flat. Jarl Skald sounded like a real piece of work. 

“And we’re sailing right back into it,” muttered Rumarin. He groaned and leaned his forehead on the table. When he picked his head up again, they were both looking at him. 

“Do you have any ideas?” Blaise asked drily. 

“Stop sleeping?” suggested Rumarin. He threw his hands up. “There has to be some reason why the Daedra chose Dawnstar. Maybe we just need to find that answer.” _We,_ he realized after he had said it. Great. 

***

Much later that evening, he was back out on the deck, watching the dark wet world whip by. The air was frigid, and he could hear the rush of wind, the whoosh and snap of the cotton sails, and the soft slap of the waves against the hull as the ship cut through the night sea. 

Smothered in his two cloaks, he felt well insulated against the cold, shielded from the wind and nestled on the deck between the forward mast and a massive coil of rope. The ship in the night was all black shadow rimed in shifting light. Masser and Secunda loomed overhead, accompanied by the aurora dancing fitfully behind the few clouds that scudded across the sky, sped along by the steady winds. He thought he could pick out the oblong form of The Tower constellation in the northwest sky, stars twinkling remotely.

He leaned his head back against the mast, listening to the sounds of the ship as it cut through the arctic night. Gazing up at the sky, he felt oddly as if he had stepped outside of time for a moment, suspended in a private dimension where everything was painted in contrast, bright and dark. Looking at the night sky had always made him feel meditative. The twinkling of the stars and the whoosh of the wind were a perfect backdrop for his troubled thoughts. 

The rest of that day at sea had passed uneventfully. In an effort to distract everyone from the menace they were sailing into, he and Blaise had diced a little with the sailors and he had done some storytelling over dinner, spinning yarns from his childhood until they were roaring with laughter. Getting the sailors to laugh had felt familiar and good, but hadn’t done much to soothe the pit in his stomach he seemed to have been carrying around since receiving the letter in Winterhold. 

It had gotten late, and he had been overcome with an urge to get away from the others for a little while, so he had come out on the deck to feed a need to stew in his own thoughts. He felt a tension building in him as they drew closer to Dawnstar that had nothing to do with Vaermina or nightmares, and clearly his self-distraction tactics had their limits. 

The past few years had meandered past in isolated numbness, underlined by the certainty that he was utterly alone. When he and Florian had parted ways close to five years ago, it had been with resignation that their paths were leading them in disparate directions and Rumarin’s itch for adventure needed to be scratched if there was ever going to be a future for them. Then, when he had heard the news of the attack… Finding out he was alive had unearthed a writhing mess of complicated emotions, and he was no closer to sorting through them than he had been two days ago. 

A shadow passed between him and the railing, briefly obscuring the moons and the bright clouds, and a moment later a body settled to the deck beside him. Blaise didn’t say anything for a long while, just sat beside him on the deck, their shoulders pressed together, both of them gazing up at the surreal skyscape.

“Dreamlike, isn’t it,” murmured Blaise.

Rumarin huffed a silent laugh at how eerily the man had echoed his own thoughts. “Like a passage between worlds.” 

“I guess, in a way, it is,” said Blaise quietly. “Whatever I learn from Falion in Morthal is going to change everything.” 

“I know how you feel,” said Rumarin wryly. 

Without turning to look at him, Blaise said, “You’re nervous about what you’ll find in Solitude.” It wasn’t a question. 

Rumarin turned over a couple possible droll responses before settling on a version of the truth. “I’ve been a drifter for so long that I’m worried about what will happen if I find an anchor.” 

“Was the letter from family?” 

He thought for a moment before answering, “As good as. It was from my old friend Silas, one of the bards I grew up with. They were the closest thing to family I ever knew.” 

“You don’t know your birth family?” 

“Remember when I said I was raised by a wandering band of troubadours? Well, all I really know is that they were in Leyawiin on the eve of the Aldmeri invasion, at the dawn of the Great War, and somehow I was separated from my parents and swept up in their flight from the city. I don't remember much of it— my best guess is I was about five— so I suppose I was a child refugee.” 

“So, then, you don't know exactly how old you are?” asked Blaise curiously. 

Rumarin shrugged. “Correct. I don’t actually know my birthday, but my best guess is I'm around thirty-eight, maybe forty. Why, how old are you?” 

“Thirty-two.”

"Ah, well, that explains the relative difference in maturity between the two of us, since I'm practically a teenager by Elf standards. Although growing up around more men than mer has given me at least some concept of age-appropriate behavior." He grinned, although Blaise probably couldn't see it in the dark.

A long, companionable silence stretched before Blaise broke it again. “You said before that you had thought your friends were dead. Why?”

Rumarin sat still, his momentary burst of good humor popping like a soap bubble. The answer to this question was the weightiest thing he carried. In the same way he had just been thinking that this sea voyage felt somehow like an irrevocable point of no return, putting voice to this, his greatest agony and shame, felt eerily like casting a die that would determine his fate. 

He opened his mouth to confess, but the words stuck in his throat. “It seems I had bad information,” was all he said, ignoring the corkscrewing feeling in his stomach. It wasn’t a lie, only an oversimplification— so why did he feel guilty?

He could feel Blaise deliberating silently next to him. It had been a clumsy response— even an idiot could have recognized he was on edge. But Blaise, ever graceful, merely acknowledged, “The letter has divided your life. There’s before, when your friend was dead, and after, when he’s not. Everything is different.” 

Rumarin felt a jolt. It was as if Blaise had excised and distilled his own churning thoughts from just a few moments ago. “That’s exactly how it feels.” 

They lapsed into silence, faces upturned toward the boundless night sky, watching their breath make ice crystals as the clouds scudded across the moons. The dark presence beside Rumarin felt both electric and soothing. Perhaps it was just the distraction of Blaise’s warm proximity, but his unquiet thoughts had settled and he felt suddenly content to just sit and watch the sky. 

Eventually, Blaise cleared his throat. “It must be close to midnight,” he said. “We should sleep. If Madena is correct about the radius of the curse, or whatever it is, this might be the last solid night of sleep we get for awhile.”

Rumarin sighed and agreed. He’d done enough brooding. He allowed Blaise to hand him up, stamping his feet on the deck to return painful, prickling feeling to his toes. No longer shielded by the mast and the railing, the full force of the icy wind hit him in the face like a dull knife. The two of them hastened to the ladder and made their way to the small aft cabin they were to share. Rumarin had volunteered to take the top of the two bunks, and neither said a word as they shuffled around the cabin stowing boots and heavy cloaks. 

After they had settled in their bunks, Rumarin stared up at the deck overhead in the darkness, acutely aware of Blaise’s quiet proximity just an arm’s length below. As he sank toward sleep, his mind drifted idly toward what it might feel like if he were to climb out of this bunk and slip into Blaise’s, straddle his hips, thread his fingers through his thick dark hair, bury his face in his neck, breathe in his scent of leather and salt... A soft sigh escaped him. As those warm, guilty thoughts turned hazy, sleep pulled him under.

*** 

The next day aboard the ship passed uneventfully. As the afternoon wore on, agitated muttering grew among the sailors. They knew what the night would bring, but they were good Jarl’s men, so they worked diligently to keep the ship sailing smoothly on track for Dawnstar. Based on a few conversations and the way they carefully avoided making too much noise around Madena where she sat with her books, it seemed that the crew trusted her as the main hope for their deliverance. It surprised Rumarin a bit given what he knew about their jarl and his nationalist anti-magic leanings; perhaps they had already come to the realization that they didn’t have any other good options. 

Their trust clearly weighed heavily on Madena. She spent hours poring over her notebook in the hold, lips moving soundlessly as she traced the passages about Vaermina in The Book of Daedra. For a little while that afternoon, she and Blaise put their heads together to try to ascertain any magical method to bring some relief to the town, but nothing came of it.

Rumarin felt worse than useless. He skulked about on the deck of the ship, watching the coastline roll past, observing the wild wave-carved shapes of the icebergs rising out of the Sea of Ghosts. He even borrowed Blaise’s copy of _Immortal Blood_ and spent a few hours in his bunk after dinner, glad to focus on something in order to distract from his own anxious thoughts. 

This proved to be more successful than he had intended, as the flickering candlelight and the rocking motion of the ship soon lulled him into a hazy stupor. His blankets and cloak warded off the worst of the damp chill in the hold, and soon the words were swimming on the page before him. 

_He walked along the wide cobbled streets of Solitude, smelling the sweet perfume of the flowers as the torchlight danced in the deepening twilight. Up ahead, he could see his old friend standing at the edge of the well, peering down into its depths. Torchlight flickered across his red coat and the long, dark ponytail threaded with fine streaks of gray trailing down his back. When he turned to smile at Rumarin, Rumarin was surprised at how hale he looked, as if he had barely aged a day._

_“My friend— how wonderful it is to see you again,” he said, bard’s voice deep and rich. Rumarin grasped his hand, feeling a lump rising in his throat._

_“You too, Silas. I can’t tell you how relieved I was to hear you were alive. You’ll have to tell me everything that has happened over the past few years. But why are you here in Solitude?” He gestured around him at their surroundings._

_“To pass along Otero’s gift,” said Silas. With a flourish, he drew out a tiny bundle of blue silk from his coat pocket. He reached out and took one of Rumarin’s hands in his, then placed the bundle in his palm, folding Rumarin’s fingers around it. His hands were icy cold._

_Rumarin carefully unfolded the silk wrappings to reveal a glittering crystal vial. He let the square of silk fall to the floor as he lifted the vial to the light. It was filled with a clear, viscous liquid, a furled purple blossom suspended within it._

_Rumarin’s breath caught in his throat as he stared in horror at the vial. The bottle swelled, pulsating, to fill his sight, crowding out everything else. He was aware of his other hand moving of its own accord to unstopper the bottle. The tinkling sound of the stopper hitting the cobblestones sounded unnaturally loud. He felt Silas place a hand on his shoulder. “This is what he wanted you to have.”_

_Rumarin lifted the vial to his lips, Nightshade blossom drifting placidly toward the neck of the bottle. His every instinct screamed at him to stop, to dash the bottle to the ground, but seconds later the sweet, heady serum was permeating his mouth, sliding over his tongue. The taste was like herbed honey, but with a strange meat-like savory note. The vial slipped from his fingers and fell to the floor. Silas’s hand gripped his shoulder. The air had grown thick. It felt as if he were moving through water._

_The light from the nearby torch in its bracket flared, painting everything in garish colors that weren’t quite right. The red scrollwork embroidered on the sleeve of Silas’s coat danced and squirmed before his eyes, twisting like snakes. He raised his eyes to Silas’s face, and was horrified to see his cheekbones stretching and sharpening, the bones of his face writhing beneath his skin, brow bone protruding into a grotesque parody. His lips parted to reveal sharp canines. Rumarin heard a low moan and only belatedly realized it had come from himself. “You’re a… monster,” he gritted out, fear gripping his limbs. The world gyrated and stretched around him, undulating sickeningly._

_Silas's eyes glowed orange. His tongue darted out, wet and red, testing the tip of one of his fangs. “So are you, my boy,” he hissed, wide mouth stretching into a monstrous grimace._

_Rumarin suddenly couldn’t breathe. It felt as if strong hands were gripping his throat, squeezing his air passage. Black stars throbbed at the corners of his vision, the colors of Silas’s red coat, his pale skin, the green foliage bleeding and swirling together as he felt his knees crash to the ground. There was a strangled keening coming from somewhere as he felt sharp claws dig into his shoulder._

_He thrashed wildly, trying to free himself from the bindings that had suddenly sprang into being around his limbs. Someone was calling his name as if from a great distance. His vision was fading to black._

Suddenly the pressure around his throat released and he drew in a great shuddering gasp of breath, cold air rushing into his lungs. 

_“Rumarin,”_ the voice was saying. He clapped his hand to the clawed one digging into his shoulder after freeing his arm from the...blankets? His fingers found only a warm, very human hand, firmly pressing him back. Another hand pressed to his forehead, easing him back down into the bed. “You’re okay, breathe. You almost hit your head on the bunk.” 

The sound of the voice more than anything else recalled him to the present. Blaise sounded very concerned. The tension went out of Rumarin in a rush, and suddenly his limbs were like water as he slumped, utterly spent, back into the mess he had made of the bedclothes. His chest still heaved as he frantically tried to get a handle on his breathing. 

Gradually he re-registered his surroundings. Faint shadows danced on the wooden walls. The creak and groan of the ship, the soft slapping of water against the hull. Blaise was standing on the floor next to his bunk, which meant he loomed slightly taller than Rumarin where he lay, and was gazing down at him with undisguised concern, his brows knitted together. “That’s it, breathe,” he said.

Rumarin closed his eyes, willing his wild heartbeat to slow. He couldn’t seem to force his fingers to unclench from Blaise’s. He felt Blaise’s other hand lift from where it had been pressing Rumarin’s forehead back into the pillow, seemingly convinced he wasn’t going to thrash his head around any more. He took in deep gulps of air, trying desperately to dispel the horrific kaleidoscope of dream images from behind his eyelids. 

He felt Blaise gently tug his hand away and lean back, and he resisted, trying to hold on with rigid fingers he still couldn’t seem to relax, but a moment later Blaise returned, handing Rumarin a waterskin. He slipped his hand back in Rumarin’s, reassuringly. “Drink,” he said. 

Rumarin drank. He coughed and spluttered over the first sip, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his shirt. With a second attempt, he managed to gulp down some water, and gradually his breathing slowed. He lay back against the mattress, caught between dread from the nightmare and shame over needing to be comforted like a child. But still he couldn’t let go of Blaise’s hand. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Blaise asked. His face was shrouded in shadow, but Rumarin could see the glint of his eyes and the familiar line etched between his brows. The reality of their situation suddenly hit Rumarin, and it was enough to jolt him from the last vestiges of the dream, placing him very firmly back in the present, where he was holding hands with his traveling companion.

Abruptly, he let go of Blaise’s hand, and immediately pressed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, partly to soothe the tension in his brow, but also to hide his face, just in case he was blushing. He raked his hair back from his face before letting his arms drop back to the mattress. Cold sweat pricked at his skin and he pulled the neck of his robes away from his chest. He must look an absolute mess. 

Blaise pulled his hand back, but continued to peer down at him, worry written on his face. “I’m all right,” said Rumarin, and his voice came out gravelly. He cleared his throat. “Really, it was just a dream.” He took a deep breath, held it for a second, and let it out all in a rush.

Blaise studied him for another moment. “It’s starting, then. Did it seem… sharper than a regular nightmare? Madena said it might.”

Rumarin blanched, remembering the very real-feeling pressure at his throat. “It was… as if She knows all of the worst things inside my head right now. All rolled into one.” Dawnstar had been enduring this for weeks? 

Blaise flinched, no doubt considering what awaited him in his own slumber, and sighed. “Well, the only way out of this is forward.” He ducked out of sight, and Rumarin felt the bunk creak as he settled in below. 

“Thank you for waking me,” Rumarin said. His voice sounded more normal now. He rearranged the blankets on the bunk, settling back in as Blaise extinguished the candle, plunging the cabin into darkness. 

He lay there in the dark, listening to his own breath and the regular beating of his heart. He couldn’t remember ever having a more vivid nightmare. The details still stood out clearly in his mind: the monstrous features twisting the visage of his old friend, the strange hallucinations, the cloying taste of the poison. It was a long time before he was able to drift off to a fitful sleep, and when he did, his dreams were plagued by a vague and nameless horror.


	9. Foil

Mid-morning the next day found Rumarin stretched out in his bunk again, bleary-eyed from the awful quality of sleep he’d gotten the night before but also unable to nap, afraid that the same horror still lurked there. They would reach Dawnstar by evening, and mounting unease was gnawing at him. He felt both wrung out from constant worrying the past few days and restless, incapable of sitting still. Grumbling, he sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bunk, then crashed his head into the deck above and loudly hissed a curse. 

When he emerged onto the deck of the ship, it took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the muted white brightness of the overcast sky. He quickly picked out the fur-and-oilcloth-shrouded forms of Blaise and Madena standing near the railing, gazing out over the field of icebergs and talking quietly. Blaise turned and glanced over his shoulder as Rumarin approached, then leaned back from the railing to welcome him into the conversation. 

“Are you feeling any better?” he asked. His own face bore the same telltale hollowed-out eyes as the rest of the crew, the hallmark of one who had spent the night in private torment. He hadn’t woken screaming in the night, but it was obvious that he had had no rest. Rumarin hadn’t asked about the details of his dreams, and Blaise had volunteered nothing.

“No,” said Rumarin, joining them at the railing, “but I’d rather freeze to death out here with you two than be left alone with the twisted contents of my own head for another minute.” 

Madena offered a tired, sympathetic smile from within her deep fur-lined cowl. “At least neither of you is seasick. I’ve traveled with people susceptible to it before, and it seems horrible.” Suddenly, her eyes snapped open wide. “I’ve just had an interesting idea. I wonder if seasickness could be moderated using Illusion.

Blaise’s brows drew together as he looked at her. “How would that work?” 

“Well, seasickness is essentially caused by sensory confusion— when what the body feels and what it sees don’t seem to agree. So, if you could force the two signals into agreement with an illusion, you might be able to relieve the conflict. Excuse me— I need to write some notes,” she said, hurrying off. 

Rumarin grinned at Blaise. _“Mages,”_ he said, shaking his head. Blaise quirked an eyebrow as if to say, _You do realize who you’re talking to?_ Rumarin shrugged. “I suppose I can’t blame her for looking for a distraction,” he said. 

The craggy mountains of Winterhold had started to give way along the coastline to windswept arctic plains, the beaches dwindling to narrow strips of ice along the shoreline before the land rose dramatically to plateaus of ice and rock. They were too far out to sea to make out many details, but there was no sign of any people. Blaise said the captain had told him they would soon sail past the land border between Winterhold and the Pale, heralded by an old lighthouse perched high on a snowy peak, that marked the beginning of the approach into Dawnstar. 

Rumarin leaned an elbow on the railing, peering over the side to where the slushy water sluiced away from the hull as the ship cut through the waves. He could feel the beginning of a headache coming on. 

*** 

A few hours later, gathering dusk saw the _Queen Macalla_ lining up her approach into Dawnstar’s port. The sky had turned an ominous, steely dark gray. “Looks like snow,” Rumarin remarked. “We made it just in time.” He stood beside Madena on the deck, their backs against the wall of the captain’s quarters, huddled against the wind and trying to stay out of the way as sailors hastened every which way across the deck shouting to one another. It was from this position that he got his first look at Dawnstar.

The town was shaped like a horseshoe, two tiers of thatch-roofed Nordic dwellings clustered around the central harbor, spreading out up the hill away from the water and ringed by snowy pine forest on all sides. To the west, what looked like an old crumbling Imperial fort loomed over the town from a rocky promontory high above. The wooden dock protruding out into the harbor bustled with activity, as a crew of dock workers prepared to receive the ship into port. The strong smells of fish, salt, and pitch permeated the air. 

The ship’s movement had slowed to a crawl as the sailors scrambled about trimming the sails. Rumarin watched them with interest, impressed by the hive mind they seemingly possessed, all working in tandem. “Where is Blaise?” asked Madena. 

Rumarin made a show of looking around before answering, although he knew perfectly well that he was below gathering his belongings. He always knew exactly where Blaise was lately, a fact that made his cheeks burn a little every time he realized what he was doing. 

“He is a rare person,” said Madena pensively, folding her arms and tucking in her cowl against the stiff breeze blowing in. “Many others in his position would be reduced to bitterness or melancholy, but he seems to have found something else to drive him.”

“Yeah, and it’s practically a death wish,” muttered Rumarin. The sour note in his own tone surprised him, but he realized it was true: somewhere along the line, the dread he was carrying about his own future had bled over into worry about Blaise. 

Madena was looking at him sideways. “He has had to make his own way after a difficult loss. It must have been quite a shock to him. I almost didn’t recognize him at first at the University— he looks so different than the first time I met him.” 

“What was he like, before?” asked Rumarin, schooling his voice to pretend casualness and mask his intense curiosity.

“I remember thinking that he was a fitting partner for Rachel,” she mused, a faraway look in her eyes. “You have to remember, Rachel was a sensation in the community— even the stodgiest old masters were enamored with her. Every event shaped itself around her. She was so passionate— her eyes would light up with each new idea, and she was quick to laugh. A real spitfire.” 

“And Blaise?” Rumarin prodded, unable to stop himself. 

“He was her shadow, always close beside,” said Madena, then amended, “Well, perhaps ‘shadow’ is the wrong word. You’d think, with someone as spirited as Rachel, that any companion would fade into the background in comparison, but Blaise has a presence to him, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. It was clear that he saw himself as her protector, and I think she held a great deal of respect for him.” 

Madena smiled sadly and shook her head. “It was obvious they were very much in love. I think he would have climbed the Throat of the World barefoot if she’d asked it of him. Of course,” she added, raising a hand, “I barely knew them, personally, but I was very curious about Rachel, as famous as she was by that point. So I did a lot of watching and listening at that dinner we both attended those years ago, while mages more prominent and educated than I asked their questions.”

Rumarin half-smiled. Somehow it wasn’t hard to imagine Blaise in the role of gallant protector. A sweet ache had settled into his chest. 

Madena continued, “So yes, Blaise was more the quiet and serious type, even before, but also solid and sure of himself. That’s what I meant when I said he was a fitting partner for her— I remember she turned to him to ask his opinion about some point of magical theory, and I was surprised to hear him disagree with her. She actually deferred to him, even in front of a full table of scholars who had come to hear her speak.” 

She smiled. “In Breton society, it’s hardly revolutionary for a woman to defer to her husband in public, but I don’t think that was the type of relationship they had. You have to understand that the mage community is much more egalitarian than Cyrodiilic or High Rock culture— mages respect power and expertise. If anyone at that table had previously thought of Blaise as a handsome bodyguard, that impression was rapidly dispelled.” 

She chuckled. “He was so matter-of-fact about it, too. She asked him what he thought, he answered, and then went back to his dinner.”

“That sounds about right, honestly,” Rumarin had to admit. Despite only having known him in the context of rough travel, it was easy to picture Blaise dressed up and stoically holding his own at a fancy dinner. And Rachel… The seat beside Blaise in his mental image was a blank, but she must have been truly stunning. For some reason, there was a lump in Rumarin’s throat. 

Perhaps it came through in his voice, because Madena looked at him then, and her face was soft. “He is fortunate to have you looking after him,” she said. 

He felt a small spike of distress. “I’m not sure what you mean,” he said casually. “Blaise is the brains in this partnership, I just provide him with comic relief.” 

“That’s exactly what I mean,” she said softly from within her deep hood. “Do you know what a foil is, Rumarin?” He shook his head. 

“It’s a term from literature. A foil is a character who shows traits that contrast with another character. The contrast brings each of their individual strengths— and weaknesses— to light. Being around the two of you the past few days has been intriguing,” said Madena, laying a hand on his arm. “You’re like Blaise’s foil. Your light penetrates his darkness. I think he needs you.” 

Rumarin stood mute, not trusting himself to speak. “I can’t imagine the pain he has been feeling, but at the same time, after watching him these past few days, he’s different with you. Softer.” She patted his arm. “He probably isn’t ready to hear it, yet, but someday I hope you tell him how you feel. You might be surprised by his response.”

Somehow he knew there was no use denying anything to her. “How did you...” His voice came out slightly strangled, his heart hammering in his chest. He couldn’t resist looking around to ensure Blaise was still below deck.

Madena’s smile was wry as she took her hand away and hitched her cloak higher around her shoulders, turning away from him. “I’ve been around awhile, Rumarin. I’ve counseled more than one lovesick youth on the ways of the heart.” 

Rumarin found his voice again as she retreated toward the prow of the ship, heading for the captain who was busy shouting up at a sailor scrambling about in the rigging. “I’m hardly a ‘lovesick youth’” he muttered sourly. Then, louder, “Are you sure you’re a mage and not a priestess of Mara?” he called lamely. 

“Who’s a priestess of Mara?” asked Blaise, stepping up beside him and dropping their two packs on the ground.

Rumarin jumped several feet into the air, his heart giving an almost painful jolt. “What? Who? Oh- just Madena, being all wise and benevolent again,” he replied in a rush, trying to keep the panic out of his voice. How long had he been standing there?

Blaise was looking at him a little strangely, but he must not have heard any of that or he would have a very different expression on his face— _wouldn’t he?_ Just then, the deck lurched and a cracking sound split the air as the ship bumped up against the dock. Rumarin stumbled as the impact shook the ship, long legs buckling under him. Blaise caught him by the arms, steadying him. Embarrassing.

He must have looked alarmed at the sounds coming from the ship, because a passing sailor laughed and pointed out where the boat had impacted the sacrificial pilings lining the wharf. They were intended to be destroyed and replaced to absorb the impact of docking, he explained. Blaise was chuckling and shaking his head. “I bet _you_ didn’t know about those, either,” grumbled Rumarin as they disembarked. 

They exchanged pleasantries and a little coin, at Blaise’s insistence, with the captain and Madena on the dock. Rumarin’s legs wobbled and the world seemed to tilt around him as he set foot on the dock. It took several moments for him to orient himself, and even then it felt exceedingly strange to be on dry land. 

Dusk had fallen, and the light from lanterns up and down the wharf glinted off the hardened crust of dirty ice ringing the water’s edge. The air was frigid, and now that they were so close to light and warmth, Rumarin found himself extremely impatient to get in out of the cold. A light snow had begun to fall. One of the sailors gave them directions to the inn, upslope on the southwestern side of town. They set off walking in that direction, still a little shaky.

Rumarin trailed behind Blaise as they made their way through the darkened streets, lost in thought. Madena’s casual validation of his feelings had hit him like a sledgehammer. He suddenly felt very exposed, as if her knowing glance had been a public announcement to the whole world: _come one, come all, to see the pathetic Altmer jester make a fool out of himself by pining after his damaged vampire-hunter comrade!_ He groaned quietly to himself just thinking about what he was going to do if Blaise had overheard. 

To all appearances, though, he hadn’t. The set of his broad shoulders held no more tension than usual, and the silence between them was the easy silence of traveling companions, not the stifled tension of someone stewing after an awkward encounter. And yet, Rumarin’s relief felt a little hollow. Some tiny, stupid portion of him pointed out that if Blaise had overheard, then the question of what, if anything, to do with these feelings would be more or less out of his hands. Blaise would react, and that would be that. Now, he was left to reckon with both the feelings _and_ the question of what, if anything, to do about them. 

He was so lost in thought, simmering in his own angst, that he nearly walked into Blaise before realizing the man had stopped dead. They were in an icy alleyway between two buildings, about to step out into a pool of torchlight on the main thoroughfare. Before Rumarin even realized what was happening, Blaise had shoved him back into the shadows and thrown off his pack and heavy outer cloak. His sword was out in a flash and he was sprinting across the street. 

Rumarin had no idea what was happening, but it couldn’t be good. He dropped his pack and squeezed his eyes shut, blocking out the world and casting his will through the veil of Oblivion to call forth his ghostly blade. Dashing out into the street after Blaise, he emerged from the alley just in time to see Blaise throw himself at a dark pair of figures huddled in the shadows beside the house across the street. His first thought was that Blaise was rudely interrupting a tryst, so intertwined were the two forms— but he skidded to a halt on the icy cobbles as the taller figure flung the shorter to the ground and snarled, eyes flashing in the gloom like a cat as its form seemed to flow away from Blaise’s outstretched blade.

His blood ran cold. Every instinct screamed at him to turn and run, but he steeled himself, forcing through the cold dread coursing through him. Closer up, he could see that the vampire was a female. Irrelevant details jumped out at him in his terror: long red hair hung down her back in a lank, matted rope, and she looked nothing like Thorvar: she had a grotesque ridged brow and pinched, snout-like nose. She hissed and her lips peeled back in a nasty grin as she dropped into a crouch with chilling grace, circling Blaise. Her tongue darted out to run around her lips, leaving a dark smear. 

She had no weapon but a dagger clutched in her right fist, he noted. Somehow that didn’t make him feel any better— she was a coiled spring, claw-like fingers flexing. 

It was over almost as quickly as it had begun. Sharp as a snake, she darted forward, flashing her empty left hand in front of Blaise’s face to distract him then slashing savagely at his flank with the dagger in her right. Rumarin shouted hoarsely, stumbling forward, but Blaise had seen through the feint. He twisted smoothly out of the way, seizing her left wrist with one hand and bringing up his sword in the other. There was a horrible wet grating sound as he used the momentum of her thrust to impale her to the hilt on his blade. 

She howled, gnashing her teeth, and coughed up a great gobbet of blood- who knew how much of it her own. Blaise placed his foot on her stomach and jerked his sword free of her midsection, tossing her off his blade and onto the ground like a spent rag. Fire bloomed in his palm as he thrust out his fist, a white-hot jet of molten magicka enveloping the body thrashing in the reddening slush on the street. 

Rumarin let go of his ethereal blade and clapped his hands over his ears, anything to drown out the unearthly wails. The stench gagged him, blood and burning hair and an awful cloying smell. He felt the stale air of the fortress pressing around him again, Thorvar’s death throes reverberating through the room. He shuddered, shaking off the flashback, and forced his eyes open. 

Blaise was staring down at the flailing creature, face savage with satisfaction. He ceased the stream of fire, clenching his fist, only when all movement and sound had stopped and the corpse had been reduced to an oily black smear on the cobblestones.

Rumarin had to fight a sudden instinct to shrink back when Blaise cut his eyes back to him, piercing in the low light, but then he abruptly turned and strode toward the other figure huddled in the snowdrift where they had been thrown by the vampire. A moment later, Blaise was hauling a quaking young man to his feet. The sight unfroze Rumarin’s feet and he stumbled forward to meet them. Before he could take two steps, Blaise commanded sharply, “Get the satchel,” jerking his elbow toward where he had dropped his pack. His eyes never left the youth. 

Rumarin dug out the leather pouch, hands shaking as he sought out a curative vial and handed it to Blaise. A second later, he fished out a calming draught as well. At first the young man simply stared, eyes wild, watery blood staining the collar of his cloak where it seeped from the twin wounds on his neck. He seemed shocked, unable to comprehend what was happening, and terrified of Blaise. Rumarin could empathize. He put a hand on the youth’s shoulder, bringing the vial of the calming draught to his lips. “Drink. It will help.”

A clatter of steel and boots crunching on the ice announced the arrival of the guard. “About time,” muttered Blaise, as they came to a halt beside the vaguely human-shaped skid mark where it still smoked on the cobbles. 

“What happened here?” demanded the foremost guard, voice muffled by his helmet. His comrades had spread out in a rough semicircle, several bows trained on Blaise and Rumarin. Somehow all of the bared steel hardly bothered Rumarin- it seemed mundane in the face of the macabre carnage he had just witnessed.

The boy allowed Rumarin to tip the contents of the vial into his mouth, still shaking violently, but seconds later his breathing slowed abruptly and he slumped against Rumarin’s steadying hand. He plucked the curative vial from Blaise’s hand and administered that as well, listening as Blaise tersely described their encounter to the guards. 

“That’s the Stonehearth boy,” remarked one of the guards, and it was like a magic word had been spoken as all of the guards sheathed their weapons. Seconds later she had shouldered Rumarin out of the way and was peering into the young man’s face. He slumped against the wall of the house, ashen-faced. “I.. I don’t even remember how I got out here,” he said shakily. 

The head guard- at least, that was Rumarin’s best guess at his identity- jerked his head in the direction of the largest building in sight, a hundred paces or so down the street. “You’d best go see the jarl. He’ll want to hear about this.”


	10. Erandur

Rumarin trailed numbly after Blaise as they strode away from the scene, following a guard who had been dispatched to lead them to the jarl. The stench of the burning corpse still singed his nose. “He didn’t tell us not to mention how a random stranger passing through town did more to protect his citizens than a five-piece armed guard patrol,” muttered Rumarin. 

Blaise straightened from where he had been dragging his blade through a snowdrift, leaving streaks of red. He kicked at the snow with his boot, obscuring the mess. “That one looked different, did you notice?” 

Rumarin ignored the question and instead responded with “How did you do that?”, shaking his head in amazement. “You moved almost like… _she_ did.” 

“Haven’t you ever heard the old warrior’s adage that to know your enemy, you must become your enemy?” said Blaise dryly. “Figuratively speaking, of course. And anyway, she was only a fledgling. Blood-crazed. Abnormally fast, but sloppy.”

Rumarin could only stare at him as they climbed the steps of the White Hall. He couldn’t decide if he was more turned on or afraid.

The building was a large Nordic hall, three stories of traditional log construction, ornately carved columns flanking the entrance. Their guard escort hauled open the heavy doors, waving them ahead. Inside, the drafty, long, high-ceilinged hall was dim. A permanent haze of smoke hung in the air from two recessed fire pits. After shoving the door shut with a heavy thud, the guard pushed past them, beckoning them further inside.

Two men were standing at the far end of the room, half in shadow, and alongside them stood Madena. Words drifted toward Rumarin and Blaise as they advanced down the length of the hall. 

“...priest of Mara. He arrived yesterday. Did you find anything of use at that College?” the elder man asked irritably. A dark burnished circlet sat upon his brow, and along with his embellished tunic and fur cape named him Jarl Skald the Elder. 

“A priest of Mara!” exclaimed Madena. “I confess I’m struggling to discern the utility of a priest in a situation like this, but I suppose I’m not in a position to turn down any help I can get. Perhaps his presence can calm the people.” 

“Damn right you’re not in a position to turn down help! What do I keep you around for, anyway, if you won’t fight for the Stormcloaks and you can’t fix this infernal nightmare problem?” Skald snapped.

Madena’s eyes were flinty. Just then, the guard guiding Blaise and Rumarin reached the foot of the dais and her eyes fell on them. She gave a start, but before any of them could say a word, the younger of the two men stepped forward and spoke. 

“Halt- who is this, Karl? Jarl Skald is not receiving visitors this evening.” The speaker was a massive Nord man with closely-shorn yellow hair and long mustaches, clad in the scaled leather and grey over-tunic of a Dawnstar hold guard. His face too bore the telltale signs of poor sleep.

The guard stiffened to attention, quivering with earnestness. Rumarin had to concentrate on not rolling his eyes. “Captain, these strangers just destroyed a vampire who was in the middle of assaulting young Hamvir Stonehearth,” he chirped. 

Skald made a sound of interest at this announcement. “A vampire, you say,” he said, stroking the rough stubble on his chin. “They are getting bolder.” His mouth twisted in displeasure, then his eyes fell on Blaise and Rumarin “And to whom do I owe my gratitude?” 

Blaise made their introductions, seemingly unfazed by Skald’s scrutiny. Rumarin wasn’t sure exactly how a baron of High Rock ranked relative to a jarl of Skyrim, but it occurred to him that perhaps this casualness wasn’t entirely accidental. It was an odd thought. He refocused his attention away from Blaise’s offhand tone and concentrated back in on his words. “We only just arrived via boat. We were traveling with your court wizard,” he was saying, nodding toward Madena, who inclined her head, looking troubled. 

Skald’s eyes narrowed briefly at the lack of title used in Blaise’s address, but at the mention of Madena, his gaze shifted to her instead and his face showed a flash of surprise. “From Winterhold,” he commented. It wasn’t a question, but Madena nodded briefly. 

He turned back to Blaise, eyeing him contemplatively “I wish this was the first time lately that I had news of a vampire assault in my town. They are stirring. For whatever reason, their raids on the city are increasing in frequency. Is Stonehearth all right?”

“He’s all right,” confirmed Blaise. “He has had a calming potion and a curative draught. He’ll recover fully, given time.” He inclined his head to Rumarin, as if to acknowledge his meager part in the evening’s events.

“Well, whoever you are, I owe you a debt. Jod will see you rewarded for your service to Dawnstar.” Skald waved his hand in the direction of his captain before turning back to Madena in a clear dismissal. Jod sucked his teeth as if to mask annoyance at the perfunctory command, but beckoned to Blaise and Rumarin to follow him into a small side chamber to the left of the dais. 

The room felt small after the cavernous main hall, but still the ever-present chilly draft in the air followed them despite the brazier mounted beside the door. Weapon racks lined the walls, and a massive map tacked to the north wall depicted the territory of Skyrim with small red and blue flags denoting the Imperial or Stormcloak allegiance of each hold. Incongruously, an enchanting table glowed faintly in the corner, and a few shelves held potions, ingredients, and other artifacts of a distinctly magical nature. 

Jod crossed the room and produced a large brass key, which he used to unlock a heavy strongbox and count out a sizable handful of gold and silver into a small pouch. He handed the pouch to Blaise, grasping his hand and shaking once, firmly, then offering his hand to Rumarin. Rumarin tried not to feel foolish accepting the gesture of gratitude when he had hardly done anything to deserve it. 

“As the jarl said, Dawnstar has been plagued by those unnatural fiends lately,” Jod said grimly. “No one knows where they are coming from, but it seems like every week there is a new attack. We aren’t always able to kill the monster, though, so you have done us a great service.” He shook his head in disgust. “As if the nightmares weren’t enough. I’m surprised the jarl doesn’t have an angry mob at his door morning and night.” Rumarin pushed away the memory of frozen horror on the young man’s face as Blaise had hauled him out of the snowbank. Dawnstar certainly had been having a rough time of it. 

Just then, he realized that Madena had slipped into the room. One look at her and it was obvious that interaction with Skald had taken it out of her. He grimaced in sympathy, and she raised an eyebrow at him, but that was all. The first thing she said, in fact, was “your boots,” gesturing to Blaise’s feet. Rumarin blanched- Blaise’s left boot was smeared with a long, viscous streak of congealing blood. 

Sure enough, as they retreated back out into the throne room, Rumarin noticed a trail of bloody boot prints leading from the door into the main hall and suddenly had to stifle a hysterical giggle. “Didn’t your mother ever teach you not to track gore into the house?” 

Blaise shot him a look. Jod waved dismissively. “Bulfrek will see to that.” 

Rumarin turned to Madena. Abruptly, he was recalled to their last conversation earlier in the evening, and he felt a flush rise to his cheeks. “I need a drink,” he retorted quickly, by way of distraction. “Will you join us?” 

She shook her head. “I’d love to, but unfortunately there are several items that arose while I was away that I must attend to.” 

“We heard the jarl mention the priest- do you think he will be able to help?” asked Rumarin. Perhaps it was the fact that he hadn’t slept the previous night and faced at least one more night of the same, but he found himself genuinely hoping this priest would indeed prove helpful, even though he didn’t intend to remain in this town a second longer than required. 

“I’ll find out tomorrow,” said Madena wearily. “Come by and see me, would you?” she entreated, clasping Rumarin’s hand in both of her own. “At least don’t leave without saying goodbye.” 

So it was that they found themselves back outside on the street, headed in the direction of the inn. It was full dark now, and with a start Rumarin realized that it was only just past dusk. The snowfall had intensified, fat wet flakes alighting on his cheeks. It felt like hours since they had disembarked in the harbor. He couldn’t help but glance back down the street toward where they had left the smoldering vampire carcass, an involuntary shudder quaking down his spine as they turned in the opposite direction. 

“If the weather continues on like this, conditions might be too poor to travel tomorrow,” said Blaise reluctantly. “But I hate the idea of staying in this city any longer than we have to.” 

“Trust me, I’m right there with you,” grumbled Rumarin. He hated feeling simultaneously bone-tired but also dreading his bed.

The Windpeak Inn was a tidy Nord longhouse construction with a familiar long central fire trough. Despite the relatively early hour, the inn was packed with surly patrons with red-rimmed eyes, muttering into their tankards of mead. 

Blaise shouldered his way up to the bar, catching the attention of the middle-aged Nord innkeeper. “Do you have any rooms for rent? Two singles, if you have them? And meals.”

“And ale,” added Rumarin.

The innkeeper nodded tiredly and handed over two keys in exchange for their coin. “Can’t promise a good night’s sleep, though. Dark times in Dawnstar.” The Nordic burr was strong on his tongue. 

“We’ve heard,” said Blaise. 

Just then, a loud altercation broke out near the other end of the bar. A sturdy, dark-haired Nord woman dressed in miner’s clothes was wringing her hands. “It’s a curse! It has to be! I’ve got to get out of this town.” 

Her companion, another Nord woman of slighter build and lighter hair, laid a hand on her arm. “Irgnir, get a hold of yourself. They’re just dreams. Please tell her, Erandur.” 

A shrouded figure Rumarin hadn’t noticed before stood up from a stool where he had been seated by the fire. Upon closer inspection, those were monk robes. Warm, knowing crimson eyes softened as the Dunmer laid a hand on Irgnir’s arm. “Listen to your friend, Irgnir. They are just dreams, my dear. I assure you that it is quite normal.” 

Shaking off both of their hands, Irgnir faced them down, her whole body tense. “It’s the same dream over and over again. You think that’s normal? It’s evil, I tell you!” 

The lighter-haired woman turned to Erandur now, brow furrowed. “Erandur, she has a point. You keep telling us no harm will follow these dreams, but they must be an omen."

The innkeeper spoke up now, hands pausing at polishing the silver tankard in front of him. “Give him a chance to speak. He's trying to help us." Almost every patron in the inn had turned and was staring at the group now.

The Dunmer monk raised his hands, entreating. "Everyone, please. I'm doing what I can to end these nightmares. In the meantime all I ask is you remain strong and put your trust in Lady Mara."

Irgnir seemed to deflate. "I... I’ll try. Thank you." She allowed the other woman to steer her toward the door. 

Blaise and Rumarin shared a look. Here was Madena’s priest of Mara. While they watched, the old Dunmer turned back to his place by the fire, sinking wearily into his seat, and the low buzz of conversation started up once more. In the intervening minutes, the innkeeper had slid two mugs across the bar, along with two charred fish and a tureen of leek soup. Rumarin took up the ale and Blaise the food, retreating to a table in the corner. 

“What do you make of it?” asked Rumarin in a low voice. “I’ve never been religious, myself, but he seems to be the real deal. Calmed those Nords right down.” 

Blaise shrugged. “People’s perception is half the battle. If not all of it,” he amended, working on de-boning one of the fish. “As for what use he will be to Madena, who knows?”

***

The morose atmosphere in the tavern had begun to wear on him after awhile, so he had convinced Blaise they should move to one of the rooms they had rented to get away from all the muttering and bleary-eyed staring. Rumarin felt for the people of Dawnstar, he really did- weeks of having the same nightmares over and over, unable to sleep, friends and family falling into a stupor and being unable to awaken… it was awful. He also was tired of thinking about it. Instead, he was determined to have a pleasant evening.

Blaise was seated on the edge of the bed, sharpening his knife. The dull, metallic scrape was pleasing to Rumarin’s ears. He lounged in the single chair in the corner of the room, rolling a coin across the backs of his fingers. “Now, here’s a question,” he proposed, balancing one boot atop the other. “Have you ever seen a female giant? I haven’t. Granted, I’ve never seen _any_ giant up close, I’m not that stupid, but unless the females also grow beards and have, er, different anatomy than human or mer women, then every giant I’ve ever seen has been a guy.” 

“I’ve only seen one giant,” said Blaise, “and he was male. Assuming you’re right that one can tell by looking.” His lips quirked as he continued honing his knife.

“Come to think of it,” Rumarin mused, “I’ve never seen a child giant either. Where are the baby giants? Now this is the type of question I wish I’d thought of in the Arcanaeum. Your tusked friend probably knows.” He folded his hands across his middle, considering. “Are there no giants in High Rock?” 

“Not to my knowledge, no,” said Blaise. “I have encountered many more interesting creatures in Skyrim than I ever did at home. I was no adventurer, though, so I’m perhaps not a reliable source. Most of the beasts I encountered growing up in High Rock were of the human variety.” A dryly sardonic note had entered his voice.

“From my limited experience with your countrymen, I would hazard a guess that you didn’t quite fit the standard mold of Breton high society?” He couldn’t keep the smirk off his face. Despite the picture Madena had painted of Blaise holding his own among the intellectuals, Rumarin found that imagining Blaise hobnobbing with a bunch of perfumed noblemen in a political setting was still a bit like imagining a draugr attending a tea party. 

“Fair assumption,” granted Blaise. “My brother was the politician in the family. In fact, he was the prodigal son in most ways.” There was no resentment in his tone: it was just a statement of fact. 

“Which brother?” asked Rumarin curiously.

“Laurent, my eldest brother. He inherited my mother’s political acumen and my father’s intellect. Before I left High Rock, there was a long line of distinguished families eager to parade their daughters around him and my parents, hoping to secure an alliance.” He rolled his eyes, an expression Rumarin couldn’t remember ever seeing on him before. “He’s a bit of a peacock, but he is also a formidable swordsman- he was the one who taught me, in fact.” 

“What about your other brother, what is he like?” There was a delicious intimacy to this easy conversation. Rumarin sat back in his chair, allowing Blaise’s flowing accent to roll over him.

“Geraud became a priest of Julianos, a historian. He is a rare person; kind, and always ready to see the best in everyone. He was my closest friend growing up.” Blaise set aside the honing stone and held his blade up to the light, then tested its edge with his thumb. Apparently satisfied, he returned the knife to its sheath at his belt and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. Looking up at Rumarin, his blue eyes smiled. Rumarin felt the now-familiar ripple of something like adrenaline that accompanied every time Blaise looked at him like that. “Is your curiosity satisfied now?” 

“I haven’t even gotten started yet,” said Rumarin. “What’s your favorite color?” 

Blaise raised an eyebrow. “Blue. How about you tell me about this friend Silas in Solitude? Is he with others?” 

Discomfort bloomed in the pit of his stomach, but he forced it down. “Silas was more or less the leading bard of the troupe. He’s quite distinguished- he has performed for more than one Tamrielic royal court. He was the one who taught me the lute, and most of the folklore I know.” He was momentarily transported back to simpler days, remembering being captivated by the ringing tones of Silas’s voice as he regaled all the troupe’s children with stories of gods and heroes. 

“Is he the only one waiting for you in Solitude?” 

“His son Florian is with him as well. Florian was a companion of mine growing up,” said Rumarin, willing his face to remain impassive. He could feel a faint flush creeping across his cheeks just the same. Even after all these years, and all of his intervening dalliances, Florian was the only one whose memory still made him blush. 

He realized Blaise was looking at him through slightly narrowed eyes. Quickly, he added, “We studied together. He was my partner every time we performed a two-person act, or any acrobatics. I’m much taller than he is, though, so we had to get creative.” The expression on Blaise’s face had grown more speculative, and when he replayed his own words in his head, he felt his face burst into full flame. Definitely better to just stop talking. He buried his nose in his half-finished mug of ale.

“Sounds like it will be quite the reunion,” said Blaise. His tone was perfectly casual. 

“I haven’t seen either of them in… oh, five years,” said Rumarin defensively. “In fact, I thought they were both dead for four of those five years. So I’m sure there will be plenty to catch up on.” 

“I’m sure there will be,” replied Blaise. He stood up abruptly. “Probably best if we try to get some sleep. Tomorrow will come soon enough, regardless of what the night brings.” 

Rumarin was only too happy to oblige, bidding Blaise goodnight and escaping to the other room they had rented next door. Well, the cat was out of the bag. His face still felt hot, which was embarrassing. He hoped fervently that Blaise took it as evidence of mild prudishness- which wouldn’t be totally off the mark, if he was being honest with himself- rather than that the line of questioning had hit a little too close to home given the thoughts he had been having lately. 

There was nothing he could do about it now, he told himself as he settled into bed. He felt uneasy at the prospect of another nightmare, but there was no point worrying over it. What would be, would be. Try as he might to stay awake thinking pleasant thoughts, he was so exhausted that it took only moments for him to slide weightily beneath the mantle of sleep.


	11. Nightcaller

Rumarin dragged himself out into the common room for breakfast. He felt bone-weary, somehow even more exhausted than he had the night before. The same nightmare had returned in full force. He had sweated through the bedclothes, which had been twisted tightly around him when he awoke as if he had been thrashing aggressively. He could still taste the strange, cloying savor of the nightshade poison on his tongue. An involuntary shudder wracked him and he scrubbed a hand across his face. Bathing in the icy cold water in the basin beside the bed had done little to dispel the lingering horror of the dream, or make him feel any cleaner.

Blaise didn’t look any better than he felt, sitting on a stool at the bar. The deep purple of a bruise shadowed his eye sockets. A half-eaten plate of food sat on the counter in front of him. The innkeeper stood behind the bar, scribbling something in his ledger, but every few words he stopped to rest his wrist on the counter. Everyone in this town was positively wrung out, thought Rumarin despondently. 

The door opened, admitting a weary fisherman along with a blast of icy wind and cloud of swirling snow. From the light, it was already mid-morning. Rumarin caught a glimpse of what looked like near white-out conditions outside before the door swung shut. “Looks like your prediction came true. It definitely does not look like a good travel day out there.” Blaise’s only response was a grunt. “I’m guessing you also slept like shit?” 

His look said _what do you think?_ Rumarin raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. He couldn’t really blame the guy for being prickly; the lack of sleep was making him feel subhuman too. The innkeeper eventually brought him his own plate: salted fish, bread, and stewed apples. He forced himself to eat all of it, hoping the added strength from being well fed would help make up for his total lack of energy. 

When they had finished eating, Blaise turned to him. "The guard captain has a lead on the home location of the vampire coven. If we can't travel today, I'm going to make myself useful," he said. "Do you want to join? There’s good money in it." 

Rumarin debated for a moment. The pay would no doubt be good, if last night’s bounty from the one single vampire was any indication, but even setting aside the fact that he felt like a dead man walking, the blowing snow outside looked frankly miserable. Plus, he had told Madena yesterday that he would come see her today. "Not today," he said. "But if you give me a list, I can provision you for the next leg of the journey while you cure the undead scourge of Dawnstar." He phrased it carefully, with no indication either way whether the next leg of their journey would be separate or together. Of all the things he could use his limited brainpower to ponder this morning, that was one question he was perfectly comfortable procrastinating on. 

Blaise agreed and left Rumarin warming his feet by the fire, then reemerged a few minutes later fully armed and armored. As he pushed open the door, revealing the unpleasant fact that the snow outside was indeed blowing parallel to the ground, Rumarin heaved himself off his stool and crossed the room. “Be careful,” he found himself saying, just loud enough to be heard over the howling of the wind outside. “You’re tired. Don’t do anything stupid.” At least Blaise would be accompanied by a full complement of Dawnstar guardsmen, so he figured he didn’t need to worry too much about his safety. 

“Out or in?” growled the innkeeper. “You’re letting the heat out.” Rumarin gave him a look, then pulled the door shut after Blaise. He could feel a headache coming on.

Perhaps half an hour later, Rumarin found himself trudging through the snow alone toward the White Hall, his scarf wrapped around his face to shield him from the worst of it so that only his eyes showed. The snow wasn't particularly heavy, but it would have been miserable traveling today with such low visibility. The wind moaned between the wooden buildings and rattled the shutters, and icy drafts found their way in through the gap in his cloak, biting at every exposed inch of skin. It was with relief that he pushed open the heavy door to the White Hall. The guard didn't try to stop him. She was so deeply huddled in her cloak, Rumarin wouldn't be surprised if she had hardly noticed his presence. Some guard. 

After the wind outside, the drafty hall felt positively cozy, fires burning low and hot. The jarl was not in attendance, and the only person around was a servant morosely polishing an ornamental platter. Remembering the enchanting table in the corner, Rumarin headed for the room where the steward had counted out the bounty the night before. Low voices drifted out of the doorway as he approached.

"...came as soon as I could. I was in Dragon Bridge when a traveling merchant brought rumors of Dawnstar's troubles." The voice was familiar, deep and gravelly. When Rumarin poked his head into the room, he saw it was the Dunmer priest of Mara they had encountered at the inn the night before. 

Both Madena and the priest turned to look at him as he stepped inside. "Good morning, Rumarin," said Madena. "This is Erandur, priest of Mara. He has come to help with the nightmares." The dubious note in her voice betrayed her thoughts on the matter.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance," he replied. 

"And yours, my son," said the dark elf, bowing his head. Rumarin took the opportunity to study him more openly than he had last night. Inside the cowl of his monk robes, the elf looked to be middle-aged, with sharp, angular cheekbones and a short dark beard. Of middling height and wiry, he had the dusky Dunmer skin and crimson eyes. 

"So, you've come to cure Dawnstar of its nocturnal misery? I have to admit, I'm just a visitor, but I'm already ready to tear my hair out. I can't imagine how these people have been surviving," said Rumarin, crossing the room to lounge against the desk beside Madena. She looked about as exhausted as he felt.

"I have," replied Erandur. "I have some experience with this particular horror plaguing Dawnstar. If I may elaborate?" He glanced at Madena, somehow managing to convey deference while still oozing the particular brand of unruffled tranquility that Rumarin associated with the deeply religious. She nodded curtly, and he continued. "These dreams are manifestations created by the Daedric Lord Vaermina. She has an awful hunger for the memories of the living. In return, She leaves behind nightmares, not unlike a cough marks an illness. And like a cough can settle into the chest, Vaermina’s influence can leave permanent damage. It is imperative that we break Her hold over this town before it is too late."

"You speak with conviction," replied Madena, eyes narrowed. "I had reached the same conclusion, that Vaermina may be the source of the nightmares, but She is an obscure Daedra and shrouded in mystery. Even the College of Winterhold provided little help in my research. What makes you, a priest of the Divines, so certain?" 

"As I said, I have some experience with this particular issue. Vaermina may be obscure, but Her cultists are powerful, and I assure you Her influence is still alive and well in Skyrim." 

"What does Vaermina do with our memories?" asked Rumarin. His skin was crawling at the thought that a Daedric lord had been rummaging around inside his head. 

Erandur looked at him, raising a thin, arched eyebrow. "Who can say? Perhaps She collects them for display like works of art in a perverse gallery.” He shrugged and spread his hands. “The motivations of the greater Daedra are of course incomprehensible to us mere mortals. But whatever the case may be, I am certain that Her intentions are far from benevolent." 

Rumarin made a face. "How do you propose to stop it? I don't like the idea of a malicious deity sorting through my memories like a demented magpie looking for sticks for a twisted nest." 

"An inspired visual," said Madena dryly. “But more importantly, I’ll ask again: you seem to know an awful lot about this particular Daedra. Why should I trust you? Lives are at stake here, and I’m running out of time to help this city. I don’t have time to waste on a mere hunch." 

Erandur folded his hands at his waist. "I don't see that you have much choice," he said plainly. "I’m telling you, I can help you. But truth be told, even if you decline my assistance, I will do what needs doing. I cannot allow Vaermina's foul influence to continue to reign here."

Something felt off about the whole situation, but Rumarin felt too fuzzy from lack of sleep to spend much time dwelling on it. Besides, Erandur had said he would do whatever it was he believed needed doing regardless of whether Madena accepted his aid. That didn't sound like someone with ill intentions. It wasn’t lost on him that the priest had dodged Madena’s question a second time, but as he was well-versed in avoiding questions he didn’t want to answer himself, he couldn’t totally fault the guy. While he turned all of that over in his head, Madena was still studying Erandur with suspicion, but after a moment she sighed and straightened, nodding curtly. "What is it you propose?" 

A tension Rumarin hadn't noticed before seemed to leach out of Erandur. "I need to return to the source of the problem, to Nightcaller Temple. You likely know it by another name- the tower on the hill just west of town?" 

"The Tower of the Dawn," confirmed Madena. "You called it... a temple? It has been a deserted ruin for decades. Not even bandits or other vagabonds go up there." 

"It was the base of operations for a cult of Vaermina," said Erandur tiredly, and for the first time Rumarin noticed a shadow of fatigue pass across his face. Of course- he must have been affected by the nightmares last night as well. "It has been abandoned for years now, but even when it was active, the cultists were reclusive, so I’m not surprised no one realized what was going on up there. Now, somehow, I fear the temple has re-awakened. I won't know more until I can venture inside to investigate further. Will you accompany me? I could use the support of two mages." Erandur's eyes passed between the two of them. His face was impassive and his voice mild, but Rumarin could sense iron resolve.

Madena looked at Rumarin. “This wasn’t the reason I invited you here today, but it seems my plans have changed. I can’t afford to turn down any lead that may be able to end this scourge upon Dawnstar. If you’re up for it, I would be grateful for your help. And I’m sure if we are successful, Skald will see fit to reward you handsomely.”

“Isn’t this the exact purpose of the town guard?” asked Rumarin dubiously. Although, from what he had seen so far, the Dawnstar guard was about as effective as a spoon for cutting meat. He tried not to think about the fact that Blaise was hunting vampires with them right now. 

“The Guard’s numbers have been decimated by the war,” said Madena, disapproval heavy in her voice. “Skald conscripted as many as he could afford to lose into the Stormcloak army months back. Forgive me for saying so, but I tend to think those who are left would hardly be much help in a situation like this.” Well, that explained that.

Rumarin remembered seeing the remains of the tower on the hill overlooking the town as they had sailed into port yesterday. It was a crumbling ruin, somewhere between Imperial and ancient Nordic in architecture. A slog up the hill in the ice and snow to confront who knew what kind of existential Daedric threat was about the farthest he could imagine from the cozy day he’d planned. This wasn’t his problem- in fact, if the weather let up, he might only have to spend one more night in this godsforsaken town anyway. 

At the same time, a small curl of discomfort writhed in his stomach at the thought of bowing out and leaving Madena, who was clearly worn down almost to her limit, alone at the whim of this mysterious stranger. There was something a little sinister about Erandur. He didn’t think the “priest of Mara” thing was an act, not completely, but there was definitely something the mer wasn’t telling them. _You're not a hero,_ he reminded himself savagely. _You aren't even a real mage- you conveniently neglected to correct the priest on that point._ "I'll go," he heard himself saying, against all better judgment. So much for a relaxing day in town.

*** 

Less than an hour later, he found himself trekking up the snow-covered slope just outside of town alongside Madena, their heads bent against the wind. He could just make out the saffron color of Erandur's robes, struggling through the snow a few paces ahead of them. 

"Did you notice that he said he needed to _return_ to the temple?" asked Madena in a low voice, words muffled by the woolen scarf looped around her cowled head. Ice crystals clung to her eyelashes as she looked sideways at him, eyes piercing. "I don't trust him," she muttered. "If this temple was so secretive and reclusive, how does he know so much about it? I can guarantee you Skald- nor his predecessor- never had the faintest inkling anything was going on up here."

"I don't trust him either," replied Rumarin, "but he's right- what other choice do you have? Besides, it's two against one. Why do you think I agreed to come? I'm supposed to be two pints deep at the inn, faithfully playing the part of the indolent jester elf. Blaise is the one who goes haring off on adventures, not me." 

If any uncharitable thoughts crossed Madena's mind about his dubious qualifications as a protector given his notable lack of magic, she graciously kept them to herself. "I have a few tricks up my sleeve if things get complicated. Just stay close to me." 

"I'm hardly helpless," retorted Rumarin. "Maybe you should stay close to me." 

Just then, Erandur stopped abruptly, biting off a curse. Several large, dark shapes were materializing out of the white haze, seeming to flow down over the side of a snowbank fifty paces uphill to their right. Rumarin echoed Erandur's curse, but with more relish. "Frostbite spiders," he growled to Madena. 

His spectral bow sprang into his hand, and before the first beast made it onto the level ground of the road, two shining arrows had taken it in the head. It reared back, acrid fluid spattering the snow, forelegs waving and a savage clicking noise coming from its pincers. Before Rumarin could nock again, twin fireballs exploded from Erandur's hands, engulfing the front spider in flames. So. The priest of Mara had teeth.

The second and third spiders just cresting the snowbank met the same fate, screeching and thrashing as Madena joined the fray. In seconds, only three smoldering carcasses were left, many legs still twitching feebly.

Rumarin released his bow, grimacing. He hated spiders. "I guess your personal prohibition on magic as a weapon doesn't extend to overgrown arachnids?" he said to Madena, as they strode forward to meet Erandur. 

“And somehow _you_ never saw fit to disclose that you’re a conjurer,” she replied, unruffled. “You are full of surprises.” 

“Conjurer is a strong word,” muttered Rumarin. “And anyway, I may be a fool, but I’m not a stupid fool. I would hardly have volunteered to tag along on this little expedition if I wasn’t capable of holding my own.”

Erandur was watching them curiously. Madena waved Rumarin off irritably. "Let's keep moving." 

Rumarin guessed it was late morning by the time they crested the hill, though the direction of the sun was impossible to discern in the flat white sky. Through the haze of snow, he could make out the dark, hulking shape of the tower crouching just ahead. Extending from either side of the central tower were crumbling walls, curving menacingly down the hill like the wings of a gargoyle in repose. Besides the wind and snow, the hilltop was still and silent. Any sounds that may have normally been audible from the port of Dawnstar below were swallowed by the wind. 

The heavy iron-banded door beckoned. He trailed behind Madena as they approached the tower, his cheeks now raw and tingling in the absence of the cutting wind as he passed between the tower’s outstretched arms of stone. The tinkling whisper of streamers of ice crystals raining from the boughs of the evergreens sounded very loud to his ears. Before he reached the door, Erandur stopped and turned to face them grimly. 

“Before we go any further, I need to inform you of the dangers we might face inside.” His eyes searched Rumarin’s face, then Madena’s. Whatever he saw there seemed to satisfy him, because he continued. “Years ago, this temple was raided by an Orsimer war party seeking revenge on the cultists. They were being plagued by nightmares just like the people of Dawnstar.” 

Madena glanced at Rumarin, as if to say _I told you so_. “How is there no record of this in the histories?” she hissed. “I searched everywhere-”

Erandur held up a hand. “It never made it into the history books because no one came back out. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.” A chill swept over Rumarin that had nothing to do with the icy wind. His eyes traveled up and up, the slick, ice-rimed stones of the fort disappearing into the white haze of blowing snow. For the umpteenth time, he questioned the wisdom of his decision to be here.

“So what happened to them?” he asked, fixing Erandur with his most piercing stare. 

“Knowing they could never defeat the invaders, the priests of Vaermina released a gas they call ‘the Miasma’, putting everyone in the temple to sleep.” 

“’The Miasma’?” Madena’s tone had a definite edge. “What does it do?” 

Ever patient, Erandur continued in the same measured tone. “The Miasma was originally created for ritualistic use. Because the rituals could last for months or even years, the Miasma was designed to slow down the aging process."

“So this place is full of men and mer who have been trapped in stasis for years.” She didn’t phrase it like a question. 

“What will happen when we disturb them?” asked Rumarin uneasily, imagining walking into the middle of a confused battlefield of angry and disoriented people just awakened from a long, forced slumber. 

“That’s exactly the question,” said Erandur. “My best prediction is that when this place is unsealed, the Miasma will dissipate and they'll awaken- both orcs and priests alike. Worse, though, those who've been under the effect of the Miasma for extended periods of time have been known to suffer psychological damage, or even lose their minds entirely."

“Oh, perfect. So we’re not just walking into a minefield of angry orcs and vengeful Daedric priests, but a minefield of _insane_ angry orcs and _deranged_ vengeful Daedric priests.” 

Madena glanced at him, then re-trained hard eyes on Erandur. “I’ll admit I didn’t know what to expect when you appeared in town, so I suppose it isn’t possible to subvert nonexistent expectations. As much as I’m loath to concede it, it seems all of us will need to shed blood today in order to end Dawnstar’s torment.” She sounded grimly resigned. “You’re sure there is no way to save those trapped by this… Miasma?” 

Erandur shook his head. “I can’t say. But after so many years, it seems to me almost certain that they will all have lost their minds and be unable to be reasoned with. Come, let’s proceed. I have a shrine to Lady Mara in the antechamber inside- I will beseech Her to bestow upon us strength for the ordeal ahead.” 

Moments later, Rumarin stood beside Madena in the dank, crumbling stone antechamber of the tower. Erandur had quickly pushed past them to light the tapers on two rusted candelabras bookending the raised dais before them, then settled in front of a makeshift shrine that had been established on a wooden table, moving with practiced surety. If there had ever been any doubt that he had long familiarity with this place, it was gone now. 

Flickering candlelight concealed more than it illuminated. Cobwebs glimmered in the corners, and the ceiling above was high enough to disappear into shadow. Two things eclipsed all other details about the place. The first was the tall, sinister carving that stretched high across the wall centered on the dais. Lovingly-carved stone gleamed darkly in the fitful light, making Rumarin’s skin crawl, the sculpted visage of the god both contemptuous and avaricious. The form was snake-like without being totally inhuman: its evil-looking symmetry belied cruel divinity. Gazing at it, a primal reptilian fear curled in his stomach.

The second utterly distracting thing was a strange hum, felt as much as heard, emanating from somewhere deeper within the tower. This was what had raised his hackles as soon as the door shut behind them. It was like listening to two deep voices singing in almost perfect harmony, but not quite; a deep, oscillating, resonant beat that he could feel deep in his bones, setting his teeth on edge.

“Where is that… sound coming from?” he muttered to Madena between gritted teeth. His voice sounded strange in his ears. “There’s no other door in this room.” 

He looked over to find her staring at the carving, face white. “Mara protect us,” she murmured softly. 

As if summoned, Erandur straightened from his supplications at the altar. His bloodred eyes gleamed in the darkness as he turned toward them. Seeing where Madena’s gaze was focused, a humorless smile twisted his lips. “Ah- the likeness of the Dreamweaver. Vaermina, Weaver of the Panoply. She guards the entrance to the temple. Give me just a moment, and I’ll have it unsealed.” 

He climbed the steps of the crumbling dais, then knelt before the statue. He moved with uncommon grace for someone his age, Rumarin could not help but note. Raising his arms overhead, palms facing the carving, he bowed his head and began to murmur softly. Wisps of white light began to emanate from his fingertips, curling around his wrists. The light dripped onto the statue, spreading wildfire-quick along the edges of Vaermina’s likeness, wreathing the form of the Daedra in divine fire. Rumarin squinted against the glare, but as quick as the light had come, it faded to nothing- along with the seemingly solid stone of the carving. The wall had become a transparent curtain, revealing a stone hallway beyond.

The visage of the Daedra was still faintly visible, hanging ominously in the clearly open air of the portal. Rumarin tried not to think about that as he stepped through after Erandur, Madena’s grip tight on his wrist. The curtain felt like nothing. 

On the other side of the portal, the deep, resonant hum intensified. He felt as if his organs were being vibrated around inside him, a distinctly unpleasant feeling. He extended his right hand and called forth his spectral blade, the blue flash illuminating sparkling motes of dust swirling in the eddies of Erandur’s wake. There was something else in the air too- an undulating mist, faintly purple, hanging in the air like a noxious haze. A cloying scent assaulted his nostrils, overlaid atop the familiar musty, dank smell of an old ruin.

The priest glanced over his shoulder at the light from his blade, then nodded in approval. “Come. I will show you the source of the nightmares.” 

The rough stone wall curved around to the left, the hall soon opening into a square landing area. A window screened by a wrought iron grate opened down onto a round chamber below, with a high ceiling stretching far above the columnar space. The three of them crowded up to the grate, peering down into the chamber. A square dais supported a free-standing statue that looked similar to the disturbing one in the antechamber, and in front of the statue in the center of the dais was… some sort of artifact? It appeared to be a staff, tall and thin and balanced on its end with sharp, horned projections curving out of its top. It was hard to make out any details as his view was distorted by a dome-shaped magical shield sealing off the artifact. His eyes hurt to look at it- the surface rippled and writhed like a soap bubble, glowing faintly with an eerie red light. The purplish haze of the Miasma split around the dome, repelled by it. “What is that?” he whispered, dread worming its way up his spine as he stared down at the grotesque thing through the grate. 

“The Skull of Corruption,” murmured Erandur grimly. “This is the source of the nightmares. Our task is to destroy it, and to do that we must reach the inner sanctum.”

“But what is it?” He had to be imagining the tugging feeling in his chest. The last thing he wanted to do was get any closer to that thing. 

“Vaerminian lore holds that the Skull of Corruption has an insatiable hunger for mortal memories. The Skull has been sequestered for so long, I fear it's gained the ability to reach out on its own and try to feed.” Seeing the expression of revulsion on Madena’s face, he held up a forestalling hand. “What it does with the memories is just conjecture, and an argument for scholars and historians to consider. Destroying it is the best chance we have at freeing Dawnstar from Vaermina’s tyranny." He stepped back from the grate, motioning that they should follow him down the sloping hall. Rumarin noticed that latent magic curled in both his palms. “Stay alert- as I suspected, the Miasma is dissipating. We’ll soon start to encounter its victims.” 

He grabbed Madena’s arm as she swept past him to follow Erandur down the hall. “I don’t like this,” he hissed. “He seems determined to destroy that thing, but he also knows an awful lot about… all of this. What if this is an elaborate ruse and we’re to become part of some horrible Daedric ritual?” 

Madena raised a grim eyebrow. Her face was stony. “I don’t see we have any other option but to go along. Besides, didn’t you notice he already said no one got out of here alive? I made my choice before we ever stepped inside.” Rumarin stopped dead, watching her take several steps around the curve of the hallway before his feet unglued from the floor and began propelling him forward again. She was right, of course. Of all the bad ideas he’d ever had, this was definitely one of the worst. 

Sure enough, they followed the downward-spiraling passageway for only a few tense minutes before encountering the first invader. Even knowing what to expect, he jumped back, biting off a curse, as what looked like a heap of rusted scrap metal heaved upon the floor, groaning. A fully-armored Orsimer man with great curved tusks staggered to his feet, eyes crazed. With a wordless roar, and seemingly paying no heed to the fact that his rusted helmet and greatsword still lay on the floor, he threw his body at Erandur.

The Dunmer priest leaped back, retreating up the sloping hallway. Rumarin tensed, bringing up his blade. The fellow looked to be in bad shape. There was no lucidity behind his bloodshot eyes, that was for certain. It felt like staring down a rabid wolf. “Sorry about this,” he muttered, pivoting and sidestepping a mighty lunge that brought the great Orc within kissing distance and swinging his blade down on the back of the mer’s neck. There was the awful crunch, hiss, and sizzle of Oblivion-wrought blade meeting flesh as the Orc crashed heavily to the floor, spinal cord severed. His head was still attached to his body, but only just. 

“Nicely done,” said Madena, stepping aside and pulling her robes out of the way of the steaming blood running down the sloping stone floor. His stomach writhed unpleasantly as the hot odor of it mingled with the sickly-sweet smell of the Miasma. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Erandur sweep past the both of them and the corpse, moving with purpose. Immediately he straightened, readying for another fight, but he found the priest wringing his hands in front of the large open doorway at the end of the sloping passage. Rumarin hadn’t even noticed before, focused as he had been on not getting gored by the unfortunate soul he had just sent to whatever flavor of Aetherial plane he was destined for, but the doorway was sealed off by another soap-bubble shield. As he watched, Erandur ran his hands across its surface, fingers tensing and probing as if he was palming a glass plate. 

“Damn,” he muttered. “The priests must have activated this barrier when the Miasma was released.” 

“Is it able to be breached?” asked Madena, striding up beside him and laying her hands upon the barrier. “This is no ordinary ward.” 

“It’s impossible, as far as I know,” sighed Erandur. He leaned against the wall beside the doorway, suddenly looking very tired. Rumarin watched Madena’s fingers probe all four corners of the barrier. A part of him was selfishly relieved- this had turned into more than he had bargained for. A voice in his head pointed out that he could leave Dawnstar and be free of this curse soon, never to look back, whereas Madena and the rest of the town did not have that luxury. But he wasn’t a hero, and he’d already sent one man to his grave today. Perhaps this was a mission best left to better men than him.

Erandur’s long fingers stroked his neatly trimmed beard as he stared into the middle distance, ignoring Madena’s thorough examination of the magical barrier. “You’re thinking hard about something,” said Rumarin. “What is it?” 

“I… there may be a way to bypass this barrier rather than breaching it. I’ll need to check the temple library to be certain, but in theory it seems sound.” He sounded reluctant, but resigned. At this, Madena ceased her examination of the ward and planted her feet, arms crossed. 

“Priest. Up until this point, I’ve been willing to ignore the fact that you’re conveniently knowledgeable about this strange place, but I think we will go no further until you give us the full story.” Rumarin didn’t miss the fact that her palms hummed with latent magic. “I need to hear it from you, now: are you or are you not currently a devotee of Vaermina?” 

At Madena’s sharp question, Erandur lifted his back off the wall and directed his piercing crimson gaze straight at the two of them. “I suppose there's no point in concealing the truth any longer. My knowledge of this temple does come from personal experience. I was a priest of Vaermina, years ago."

Some of the tension went out of Madena’s shoulders at the overt admission. “Well, I can at least understand why you didn’t lead with that,” she retorted, mouth twisting in revulsion. 

“What would you have me say? Sorry for following the misguided teachings of a mad Divine? Sorry for stealing memories from children?” The words were sharp, but Erandur’s tone held only weariness. “Do you realize when the Orcs attacked, I was only concerned with myself? I fled... and left my brothers and sisters behind to die." 

So that was it. Erandur was shackled by the confused guilt of a reformed evildoer. He had left the cult not out of contrition, but cowardice in the face of the Orc invasion. “You ran before the Miasma could take hold of you,” Rumarin realized. 

“It’s the only reason I’m not on the ground on the other side of that door,” he said. “But it’s also the reason I’m here again with you.” His voice was low and even. Rumarin was surprised to find he believed him. Somehow he could feel it in the pit of his stomach that he was looking at a man who, in coming here to right a decades-old wrong, was trying to atone for his sins. Glancing at Madena, he was startled to find an unreadable look on her face in lieu of the contempt he had expected. 

“Fine. So where do we go from here?”

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We interrupt your regularly scheduled programming to bring you… a Daedric quest. This is what I get for pantsing the whole middle section of this story. Don't worry though- it's going places.


	12. Dreamstride

As Rumarin had told Blaise on more than one occasion, he was really more of a lover than a fighter. At least with the normal bouts of violence one encountered as an adventurer, your opponent was typically a sentient being with free will and the prerogative to de-escalate. Cutting down each incapacitated invader as they made their way deeper into the bowels of the fort felt more like culling sick livestock, except the livestock were men and mer, and the fighting had been much more savage than he would have expected from people who had been in magical stasis for years. 

After Erandur had made his confession, upon his direction, they had scrounged up an arcane old alchemical treatise called ‘The Dreamstride’ from the temple library. According to Erandur, there was a mysterious elixir that had been under development by Vaermina’s scholar monks that could, by some method, lower the barriers that normally protected the waking mind from the machinations of Vaermina and allow Her to blur the lines of reality. In essence, the drinker could enter a waking dream and travel real distances- but not just any dream, a dream constructed of the memories of someone else. The hope was that entering the memories of one of the Vaerminian acolytes would allow physical bypass of the magical barrier. Erandur was shaky on how exactly the potion accomplished this goal- Rumarin privately expected that it was nothing more than some form of elevated psychedelic. Frankly, this whole thing sounded mystical enough that he was rapidly losing hope that they were going to get any further. 

Nevertheless, here they were, heading toward the alchemical laboratory to try to locate a sample of this elixir, ominously dubbed ‘Vaermina’s Torpor’. With every revealed facet of the twisted history of this place, it felt more and more alien to Rumarin. What would it have been like to live in a place like this? To devote one’s soul, one’s entire being, to an unknowable and definitely evil divine entity who could squash you like a bug? He suppressed a shudder. This was exactly why he had never been religious. 

Upon rounding a corner into a wide open space that looked to have been a dormitory, Rumarin immediately had to duck to avoid the wild swing of a double-edged battleaxe. The air sang as it passed just overhead, where his neck had been only seconds before. He tackled the female Orc, taking advantage of the weaker bottom of her swing to drive his shoulder into her sternum and carry her onto the floor. He was not particularly strong, and even the puniest Orc could reasonably be called sturdier than he was, but growing up gangly and over-tall had given him an acute appreciation for balance and momentum. The Orc went down easily, and he drove his belt knife into her eye socket with a sickening squelch before she could shove him off of her. 

He was up quickly and scanning the room for Madena and Erandur. They stood back to back in the center of the room, fireballs roaring from their hands. Flaming corpses bellowed and shambled about, thrashing. The air stank of singed hair and meat. Transfixed by a mix of nausea and admiration, he watched the two mages deal out death. Madena’s face was savage in the ruddy light of her flames, carved in hard lines he had never seen there before. Her Imperial battlemage training was front and center. 

His gawking was curtailed by a guttural cry as another Orc crashed toward him, kicking aside a fallen chair with predatory determination as he advanced toward Rumarin, mace gripped in one hand. His tusks gleamed in the light of the magefire. 

Several things happened at once. The Orc Rumarin had stabbed in the brain spasmed at his feet, and her foot tangled in his robes, causing him to stumble. Just at that moment, the advancing Orc swung his mace in what was intended to be a crushing blow to Rumarin’s skull, but he missed his target as Rumarin staggered. Erandur must have caught sight of Rumarin’s predicament because a half second later an ice spike bloomed in the invader’s chest, red and glistening. 

And then Erandur was spasming, lifted into the air slightly as his body twitched to and fro in the grip of a powerful chain lightning spell. Blinding light suffused the room, the smell of electricity burning everything else out of the air. When the light died, leaving a stark purple afterimage burned into his retinas, Rumarin found that he was yelling, scrambling to his feet and shoving the dying Orc off himself. Somehow his ethereal bow was in his hands as he scanned the far side of the room for a target. His arrow and Madena’s fireball hit the robed mage at the same instant, her body careening backward across the unmade bed she had emerged from when the Miasma had dissipated. 

He clambered over the pile of corpses, avoiding the ones on fire. No more battle cries or spells rent the air as he made it to Madena’s side where she knelt over Erandur. He lay crumpled on the floor, saffron-colored monk robes smoking and black in places. “That was some spell,” croaked Rumarin. “Can you heal him?” 

Madena already had her sleeves rolled up and one hand on Erandur’s head, the other gripping his wrist. “I’m going to try,” she said. “Do you have any magicka potions?” 

He didn’t. Bladebinding was not a particularly magicka-intensive pursuit. “This must have been their living quarters- there has to be something.” It didn’t take long to locate a bag full of small vials beside one of the beds.

He helped her settle Erandur on his back, his head resting in her lap. She swallowed the contents of several blue-capped vials, grimacing slightly, then flexed her hands and bent to her work, muttering softly. Rumarin poured the strongest draught of healing he could find into Erandur’s unresponsive mouth, then massaged his throat to try and get him to swallow. Rumarin’s breath caught as he moved Erandur’s robes away from his neck and saw the angry black scars like tree roots branching over his skin. Pushing up the sleeves of his robe revealed the same. _He might have saved my life,_ thought Rumarin. _Please don’t let him die._ Hesitating for a second, he amended, _Please, Lady Mara, don’t let him die._

The minutes ticked by. He alternated between watching Madena and watching the door, knowing they were done for if any more Orcs or mages appeared. His heartbeat sounded loud in his ears after all the chaos. Multiple corpses still burned, the stench of burning flesh and hair becoming overpowering again now that the smell of electricity from the massive lightning discharge had dissipated. Still, even studying the grisly details of the battle’s aftermath was better than pondering the possibility that Erandur might be dead after everything they had already been through. 

A harsh cough and sharp gasp quickly brought his head back around to the pair of mages. Erandur was hacking roughly and had curled onto his side on the floor, rolling out of Madena’s lap. She reached out and gripped his shoulder, brow knitted in concern. If she had looked tired before, now she looked positively haggard. Stiffly, Erandur pushed himself up off the ground into a seated position. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse. “It’s been awhile since I’ve taken a direct hit like that. Nothing better for reminding an elf of his own mortality. Or age,” he amended wryly, reaching a shaking hand into the bag for a stamina potion. 

Madena let out a shuddering breath. Warm relief was coursing through Rumarin. “Well, you’ve proven you’re a stubborn old bastard,” he muttered. It was irritating how quickly he had started to actually become fond of the old Dunmer priest. 

“Mara isn’t done with you yet. Not least until you help us fix this mess you helped make.” There was no acridness in her tone, only weary relief. Her hands plucked at her robe, settling it around her on the floor.

Erandur turned to her then, reaching for her hand to still it where it worried at her robes. “Thank you for healing me, Madena. The Lady Mara certainly smiles upon me to have you near.” 

“I expect you will scar,” she responded gruffly, ignoring his benediction and heaving herself to her feet. She staggered slightly, and Rumarin put out a hand to steady her. Her exhaustion was palpable now, deeper than the physical strain she had been showing for several days. “I may be able to help with that if we ever get out of here alive.” 

“Maybe you should keep the scars,” said Rumarin. “A priest of Mara with epic battle scars- think of the romantic possibilities.” 

“I appreciate both of your… er, concern,” said Erandur, “but we aren’t out of the woods yet, so to speak. The laboratory is just ahead. We must find a sample of the Torpor.” 

Rumarin had almost forgotten what they were doing here. He suppressed a groan. “Let me go and look. The two of you don’t look your steadiest right now.” It was true- Madena wavered slightly on her feet, and Erandur looked exactly as if he had been brought back from the brink of death only moments before. “What am I looking for?”

“The liquid itself is clear and odorless. I would expect the seal on the bottle to bear the likeness of Vaermina.” 

Best to get this boondoggle over with. He lit a torch and picked his way across the floor, strewn with discarded belongings, rubble, and smoking corpses, toward a doorway in the far wall. Cobwebs whispered across his face and arms as he emerged into a large square chamber. The air smelled stale, tinged with rot and something sharper, likely coming from the desiccated remains of once-prized alchemical ingredients stashed around the room. He pulled his robes up over his nose- best not to think about what kinds of things Daedric acolytes might keep lying around. Bookshelves lined the walls, many crumbling to pieces, and deep snowdrifts of dust gathered in the crevices. 

He sifted through the detritus, using his sleeve to clear the grime from each vial he uncovered and holding it up to the light. The acolytes here seemed to have been prolific alchemists. He was no expert, but he suspected the contents of this room in potions and ingredients alone would once have been worth a small fortune. 

As he turned around in a circle, scanning the room for likely hiding places for the prized elixir, his torchlight glinted off a long row of bottles that appeared to have been carefully lined up on a still-intact shelf in the far corner of the chamber. Upon closer inspection, each small, slender bottle was labeled with a numeral and a date. The rightmost bottle, number 13, was dated over ten years ago. He picked it up, polishing it on his sleeve and holding it up to the light. The liquid inside was clear and viscous, clinging to the glass walls of its receptacle as he rolled it around in his fingers. His heart gave an unpleasant thump as he noticed the thick red sealing wax around the cork was impressed with a serpentine insignia that put him uncomfortably in mind of the statue in the inner sanctum. 

For a moment, he guiltily considered smashing the bottle and returning with the news that he hadn’t been able to locate the Torpor. This cure could be at least as dangerous as the disease- it was clear they were meddling with evil forces far outside their sphere of control, whatever Erandur’s history with the cult. There was a desperation in him that Rumarin found uncomfortable, however much he reluctantly liked the old priest, and he was uncertain how far Erandur would go to achieve what he saw as his own redemption.

The liquid in the bottle seemed to glow faintly in the torchlight. Whether or not he wanted to admit it, this was about more than just the three of them. This might end up being one of those moments he would look back on and desperately wish he had made another decision, but if he walked away now, it would just be adding another barb to the whip of deep-seated guilt he still beat himself with. He hadn’t been there when Otero and his friends had needed him, but he was here now. A faint taste of blood spread on his tongue, and he realized he had been anxiously chewing on the inside of his cheek. He was _no_ hero.

  
***  
  


“Your commitment to your community is admirable, Madena, but you can hardly stand up,” said Erandur gently. “If Rumarin is willing, I believe our greatest chance of success lies with him.” Madena’s eyes, hooded and shadowed with exhaustion, still managed to flash indignantly. 

They were standing in front of the warded doorway again, beside the body of the first dead Orc. Erandur had explained that he had his doubts the Torpor would work for him, having been a prior devotee of Vaermina who had strayed, and now a sworn priest of Mara. In fact, according to him, there was even a possibility it would be fatal. If the effects of the Torpor were, as some scholars postulated, partially derived from the power of Vaermina Herself, then She could refuse to grant him access, and even pull him into her own realm of Quagmire to face the consequences of his defiance. 

So, the task would fall to either Madena or Rumarin. Losing Erandur was too great a risk, as the only one with any clue how to destroy the Skull of Corruption. Of course Madena was adamantly insisting it should be her, that she was responsible for Dawnstar, that Rumarin had no responsibility in any of this, and she was absolutely right. It was also plain as day to both mer that if they conceded, there was a fair chance she wouldn’t be able to withstand whatever it was the Torpor would induce. There was no way of knowing whether her physical and mental exhaustion would follow her into the dream, but they were similarly in the dark about what would happen to her if she collapsed in the Dreamstride. 

Somehow, Rumarin had known it would come to this. He realized he had made the decision in the same moment he had turned to walk out of the laboratory with the vial rather than dashing it against the wall. He suddenly felt very tired. Holding up a hand to forestall Erandur, who was still trying to reason with an adamant Madena, he reached for the bottle. “I’ll do it. Just tell me what I need to do.” 

He watched Madena as Erandur explained everything he knew about how the Torpor would affect him. Worry and pain chased each other across her face as she looked at him. In that moment he realized with a shock that she really seemed to care about him, and it was twice as big a shock when he felt gratitude and humility swell in his chest- he too had come to care for her. For years, he had traveled around Skyrim, breezing through cities and towns and the odd ruin, leaving barely any more of a mark than the treasure he sold to the pawnbrokers, the laughter he pulled from the denizens of the inn, the occasional rumpled sheets in someone’s bed. And now, in just these few weeks out of Windhelm, he had made not one but two actual friends. People who listened when he talked, who cared if he lived or died, who actually seemed to want to peel back the deep layers of sarcasm and wit he used to shroud the raw, aching core of him. Blaise, he could have maybe explained away as a lustful fixation, but his growing friendship with Madena made it a pattern. What was happening to him? It was an extremely uncomfortable thought, he noted, fingers worrying at the wax seal of the vial. He was actually looking forward to throwing himself into whatever plane of Oblivion waited for him because at least in the Dreamstride, he would be traversing someone else’s thoughts rather than his own. 

Erandur was still speaking. Rumarin jerked his thoughts back to the present- this was no time for melodramatic daydreaming. “You'll be viewing the memory of another through your own eyes and with your own body- I’ve no idea whose memories you will inhabit, but it will almost certainly be one of the priests due to their proximity and Vaermina’s intimate familiarity with their minds. Those around you will have no perception that you are an impostor, but there’s no way of knowing what degree of autonomy you will actually have.”

Rumarin took a deep breath. “So the goal is to end up on the other side of the barrier at the end of the Dreamstride, and then disable it. How do I do that?” 

“The barrier is an enchantment powered by a soul gem. Just knock the soul gem off of its locus and the barrier will dissipate.” Erandur stepped around Madena and put both of his hands on Rumarin’s shoulders, staring straight into his face. His scarlet eyes were intent. “I swear upon Lady Mara that I will do everything within my power to prevent any harm from befalling you.”

Rumarin flicked the remnants of the seal and cork to the floor, peering into the bottle. Somehow he felt simultaneously fortified and imperiled by his new understanding that he was starting to have something to lose after many years without. “If I don’t come back, tell Blaise…” Tell him what? That his casual traveling companion had actually harbored a secret crush on him, but not to worry, he had gone and gotten himself killed so it was a nonissue? “Tell him that heroic reckless endangerment is really not all it’s cracked up to be and he should probably find a new hobby.” Without waiting for a response, he knocked back the contents of the vial. The sweet, heady serum flooded his mouth, sliding over his tongue. The taste was like herbed honey, but with a strange meat-like savory overtone. The recall felt like falling from a great height into open air. For a moment, instead of Erandur, he was looking at Silas, except with a grotesquely distorted face, sharp canines protruding from parted lips. He opened his mouth to scream, but the air had grown thick in his throat. His vision seemed to be narrowing, Erandur and Madena rushing away from him. The light from the nearby torch in its bracket seemed to flare brighter and brighter, crowding out everything else in his vision, blinding him, burning him, everything flashed to white.

He was standing in a high-ceilinged stone chamber, clean-swept, with bright torches hissing in brackets all along the walls. Two men were huddled around him, wearing the violet robes of Vaerminian acolytes. Looking down at himself, he found similar garb, and the hands extending from his sleeves were slender and gray. Somewhere down the hall, out of sight, he could hear the familiar crash and clang of battle being waged. The familiar jarring hum swept through him, the same in the dream as it had been in the present. 

“The Orcs have breached the inner sanctum, Brother Veren,” hissed the man to Rumarin’s left, a bald-pated Nord. His eyes were wide with fear or feverish intensity. 

“We must hold. We can’t allow the Skull to fall into their hands,” replied the other, harshly. A Dunmer, he had a shock of copper-colored hair. He began to pace. At this, Rumarin realized where he was actually standing: the staircase to his right led up to the square dais they had looked down upon from above. He was within striking distance of the Skull of Corruption. Try as he might, however, he couldn’t force his body to do anything other than stand and listen to these two men. Forcing down panic at the claustrophobic feeling of being trapped within his own body, he focused on breathing and tried to tune back into what the two men were saying.

“No more than a handful of us remain, brother,” insisted the Nord, crossing his arms. “We are facing a rout.” 

“Then we have no choice. The Miasma must be released.” 

“But...”

“We have no alternative!” snapped Veren. “It’s the will of Vaermina. And what about you, Brother Casimir? Are you prepared to serve the will of Vaermina?” The Dunmer’s eyes snapped to him, the color of dried blood.

Rumarin felt his lips move of their own accord. It was a strange sensation. “I’ve made my peace. I’m ready.” Somehow he was not shocked to hear Erandur’s gravelly voice, only younger and harder, emerge from his own throat. 

“Then it’s decided,” said Veren grimly. “Casimir, you must activate the barrier and release the Miasma. Let nothing stop you. Brother Thorek, we must remain here and guard this Skull with our lives if necessary.”

“Agreed. To the death.” Thorek set his jaw. 

“Then let it be done. Farewell, my brothers. Go now, Casimir!” The two priests turned away, magic curling in Veren’s hands as he spun toward the sounds of battle. 

Rumarin felt his feet carrying him out of the sanctum at a dead run. It seemed his- Erandur’s (Casimir’s?)- body would carry him forward through the memory whatever he did, so he focused on tracing their path through the temple. He passed through living quarters, winding his way up a long twisting corridor. Soon he began to encounter violence, acolyte against Orc, locked in desperate struggle. Several corpses littered the floor already. For the first time, he wondered what would happen if the person whose memories he was inhabiting were to die during the Dreamstride, and was very glad he hadn’t thought of it before drinking the elixir. The cloying, almost-rotten taste of it still lingered in his mouth, and with it the dawning horror that this had all been cyclical, that Vaermina had been in his head before.

He burst onto an open landing at the top of the spiraling ramp and felt Erandur immediately dodge around two priests who were attempting to subdue a massive Orc warrior. It was still incredibly jarring to see and react mentally, but feel his body respond physically in unpredictable ways. Across the landing was a pull-chain mechanism, and Rumarin/Erandur/Casimir was sprinting straight for it. 

The chain was heavy, and he had to hang almost all of his weight on it to get it to move. With a grinding, scraping sound, the mechanism engaged, and a low hiss sounded from somewhere above, intensifying as he bore down on the chain and inch by inch hauled it toward the floor. Within seconds, the now-familiar haze of the Miasma began to coalesce, swirling around the knees and then the chests of the priests and Orcish invaders alike. 

Rumarin felt his hands let go of the chain and his body straightened up, then hesitated. He didn’t have access to Casimir’s thoughts, but he felt like he could sense the mer’s dilemma. He half turned back the way he had come, but he faltered, hands fluttering in a visible sign of distress. As he finally jerked around and threw himself toward the sloping corridor Rumarin could see led toward the temple entrance, half falling in his haste to get away from the thickening mist of the Miasma, he knew he was witnessing the moment of Erandur’s greatest shame. 

Before he had gone more than ten steps, Rumarin felt the familiar thickening in the air, the world stretching away from him as his field of vision narrowed. The Dreamstride was coming to an end. Before real panic could set in about what was about to happen, there was an extremely unpleasant tearing sensation and suddenly he was floating, bodiless. Dimly he could see a violet-robed Dunmer man scrambling frantically away from him.

Abruptly, his feet made contact with solid ground again and he felt himself thrust back into his own form. Gasping frantically, he felt a sharp pain as his knees hit the stone floor. Long hair- golden-red, not black- rained down around his shoulders as he braced himself on his palms, hunching forward on the ground. The light was different- dimmer, and the reek of dust and rot was back in the air, but as he raised his head and looked around, there was no doubt he was in exactly the same place as he had been only moments ago in Casimir’s body. The quiet was complete, broken only by the relentless hum of vile energy, pulsating, hungry. 

He shakily got to his feet, dusting himself off. The doorway with the magical barricade lay just upslope in the passageway, if he wasn’t mistaken. Feeling faint all of a sudden, he leaned his back against the wall, breathing deeply. He couldn’t resist feeling his face, looking down at his hands, flexing his shoulders- the feeling of being trapped within his own body was still too fresh. 

When he regained his breath, he allowed himself to revel in the fact that he was still alive. Not only was he alive, but he had survived an occult Daedric ritual the likes of which most people couldn’t even conceive. This was going to make for an excellent drinking story.

As he had suspected, the passageway leveled out just ahead and terminated in the thrumming, iridescent magical ward that had barred their way. He could actually make out the shadowy forms of Erandur and Madena on the other side. They looked agitated. Madena looked frantic with worry and was poking Erandur in the chest and growling at him, though Rumarin couldn’t hear anything as the barrier appeared to block sound. He grinned. _Perhaps this is what it’s like to have a mother,_ he thought. He didn’t think Madena was all that much older than him, actually, but men showed age in different ways than mer.

To his left was a tarnished pewter stand that cradled a single soul gem, glowing with an eerie purple light. Rumarin could feel the magical bond between the gem and the ward, as if he could reach out and pluck it like the string of a lute. His fingers closed around the gem, and sure enough, as he lifted it out of its cradle, the ward vanished as if it had never been. The sound of Erandur and Madena’s argument returned to his ears like a thunderclap.

“...no way to know how long it will take, my dear,” Erandur was saying, making calming gestures.

“Don’t ‘my dear’ me! If he doesn’t come back, I’m going to...”

“You’re going to do what?” said Rumarin, striding through the doorway. He held up the soul gem, light inside having faded to a dull gleam, and dropped it into Erandur’s hand. Both of them were gazing at him in astonishment. “Something tells me there isn’t much you can threaten him with that’s worse than the everyday horrors of this infernal place.”

Erandur’s eyes were wide. “Incredible. It worked!” he murmured. And, in a hushed tone, “Mara be praised.” 

“Don’t sound so surprised,” replied Rumarin. He had slipped so easily back into his mask of nonchalance, but he hadn’t missed the fact that Madena had actually slumped against the wall as if her knees had given out in relief at the sight of him. 

“You must tell me everything,” said Erandur earnestly. “You may be the only person left alive who has experienced the Dreamstride.”

“Later,” said Rumarin. He would have to think about how to navigate telling Erandur that he had lived _his_ specific memories. In his place, Rumarin wouldn’t be too keen on hearing about how another person had witnessed the exact moment of his abdication of dignity. “The way should be clear. Watch for invaders- there will be more.” 

“Of course- we should hurry. The Skull lies ahead.” 

Rumarin offered his arm to Madena in a parody of a courtly gesture. She took it, squeezing his forearm gently. “Thank you,” she whispered. 

“Don’t thank me yet,” said Rumarin grimly as they proceeded down the hall. “I have a feeling we still have to do the hard part.”

  
***  
  


As they rounded the corner into the antechamber that would lead to the inner sanctum, Rumarin reached out and seized Erandur’s sleeve, pulling him back. It had just occurred to him that this was where, in the Dreamstride, he had left Veren and Thorek. How would Erandur react upon being confronted with the Miasma-crazed versions of his old friends? All three of them were drained and bloodied. This had to end soon.

He licked his lips, thinking about how to begin. “Before we go in there, I should remind you...” 

Erandur’s arm tensed. Rumarin could tell that the other mer had just realized what had happened. His eyes searched Rumarin’s face, his own impassive. “Yes. This is where I left my friends to die. I… am prepared for what might happen.” His face sagged a little. 

Rumarin loosened his grip on Erandur’s arm, letting his hand fall to his side. “We’re behind you,” said Madena staunchly. She raised her palm, and Rumarin watched the air there coalesce into the embers of what would become a fireball. “Let us finish this.” She pushed back her cowl. Her face was pale, and sweat slicked the fine dark hairs around her hairline to her face. Still, she looked resolute. 

“They are both formidable Destruction mages,” warned Erandur. “Veren favors fire, Thorek shock magic. We need to take them both down as quickly as possible- I don’t have a long fight in me.” 

As they stepped through the archway to the inner sanctum, two dark shapes materialized out of the gloom. They had only the warning of a faint light blooming in the right shape’s palm, and then Madena was shoving Rumarin against the wall, out of the path of a lancing shock attack that left the air sizzling in its wake. Ahead, Erandur ducked and rolled, coming up into a dead sprint at the figure, throwing up a ward as he ran. 

There was no recognition in either of the hostile faces. They fought ferociously, as acolytes sworn to defend their sacred religious artifact, whether or not they still possessed the soundness of mind to understand that purpose. To Rumarin’s eyes, they were just as mad as every other soul they had dispatched in this cursed place.

He smelled as well as felt the firebolt that singed his left arm as he threw himself out of Veren’s path, feeling first cold and then the slow build of searing pain. Cursing, he skidded to a halt before colliding with the side of the archway. He had almost closed the distance to the Dunmer. Bracing for the next gout of flame, he tried to flatten himself against the wall in the shallow corner, but it didn’t come. Madena had seized the opportunity of Rumarin’s charge to return Veren’s firebolt in kind, flames streaming from her outstretched hands. He could see the whites of her eyes, her jaw clenched with effort. 

The clash of magicka made a sort of screaming sound to his ears- Veren had thrown up a ward, repelling the flames with effort. This was his chance, while they were distracted. Ducking around the side of the wall, he threw himself toward Veren, bringing his sword around. At the last minute, the Dunmer’s eyes cut toward him and Veren spun on his heel, pouring a torrent of flame across his path. 

He dove, acting on pure instinct, feeling the flame sweep across his shoulder and upper back and pain beginning to scream, but it didn’t matter because he caught Veren around the knees and they were going down, Veren’s back slamming into the stone floor. Rumarin’s sword skittered away across the flagstones. The elf snarled, trying to wrest his arm from where it was pinned behind his shoulder, but Rumarin drove his shoulder into his sternum and scrambled for his belt knife. As Veren’s arm jerked free, Rumarin heaved himself off and threw all his weight behind driving his knife deep into the juncture between Veren’s neck and shoulder. 

When the mer’s arms and legs had ceased their feeble scrabbling and he lay still, Rumarin hauled himself up stiffly, bracing his hands on his knees and breathing heavily through his nose. His robe hung off him in charred tatters and half of his body was screaming with burn pain, but he had no time to focus on that. Moving as quickly as he could, he ducked behind the staircase up to the dais, taking stock of the situation. Erandur and Thorek were locked in a fierce stalemate, a wild stream of sparks issuing from Thorek’s hands and cascading over Erandur’s ward. 

Rumarin could see Erandur quaking- he was dangerously close to collapse. Doing a double take, he noticed the stream of magicka Madena was lending to Erandur’s shield, strengthening it against Thorek’s onslaught. He fought to raise the mental bulwark that would enable him to reach into Oblivion, hoping he wasn’t too exhausted to breach the veil, questing for his bow. But even before it could materialize in his hand, Madena suddenly reared back, severing her connection to Erandur’s ward. The ward winked out, sparks swarmed Erandur’s body and he collapsed to his knees twitching, but a second later a massive fireball exploded in Thorek’s face. He was thrown backward by the force of it. Madena stalked forward, hair standing up in a wild halo from the discharged electricity in the air, and more flames poured out of her. The fire swept over Thorek’s body as he thrashed, screaming, on the stone floor. 

The horrible shrill keen of the burning man was too much for Rumarin’s frayed nerves. He drew his bow with shaking hands and, miraculously, his aim was true. The screams cut off sharply, Thorek smoldered and lay still, and Madena crumpled to the ground in a heap. 

Rumarin dragged himself over to where Erandur was struggling to his feet, still spasming periodically. “The healing potions,” he said, and the two of them dug through Erandur’s pockets with shaking hands for the small collection of vials they had scavenged from the alchemy lab. Erandur was the one to kneel beside Madena and help her sit up enough to take the potion. Rumarin shuddered as the glowing warmth of the healing draught swept down his spine, taking the edge off his pain. He very pointedly did not look down at his body. A wave of nausea wracked him, black spots dancing before his eyes. 

All of them sat there for a moment in silence, breathing heavily. He was beginning to think the particular aroma of this temple, the stench of his own burning flesh muddled with dust, metallic blood, and the sickly smell of the Miasma, was permanently burned into his nose. Rumarin looked over at Erandur and saw that he was gazing at the mangled corpse of Veren. His cheeks were wet. 

“I must destroy the Skull,” said Erandur, heaving himself to his feet. 

Rumarin wasn’t sure why, but he felt compelled to witness the end of this ordeal. Madena seemed to feel the same, as both of them followed Erandur up the steps until they were standing on the dais, just outside the strange hemispherical ward. The surface was translucent, iridescent like a soap bubble, and patterns swirled and shifted in a way that made it almost nauseating to look at. Inside, the Skull of Corruption stood motionless. This close, the awful pounding was stronger than ever. Every inch of his body hummed in resonance with the evil aura emanating from the artifact. His teeth chattered, he tasted blood.

Erandur had knelt down on the stone and placed his hands on the barrier. It appeared solid, like the one that had barred the doorway, but there was no soul gem in sight. As he had in the anteroom when unsealing the entrance to the temple, he bowed his head and began to murmur softly. Again, wisps of white light began to build in his hands and emanate from his fingertips. The light dripped onto the dome, spreading quickly, flowing around its perimeter before creeping inexorably upward. 

It was almost too bright to look at. Rumarin took a step back, shielding his eyes. He blinked, and suddenly a sharp lance of blinding agony stabbed behind his eyes. Never had he felt anything close to this kind of headache. He wavered on his feet, but before he could stumble, a voice thundered in his ears. 

**“He’s deceiving you. When the ritual is complete, the Skull will be free and then Erandur will turn on you.”** The voice was both within and without, sliding along the spike of pain driven into his brain. It sounded calmly imperious; female, but more than that. The shock of fear that coursed along his spine magnified the splitting agony in his head. He dug his thumbs into his temples, trying vainly to relieve the pressure.

He glanced sideways at Madena through watering eyes, but her face was placid, if exhausted, as she watched Erandur’s magic subsume the shield. The dome was almost completely blanketed in bright white. Why are you speaking to me? he thought desperately at the voice. Erandur, deceive him? He had just helped the priest kill his friends in order to protect the city. Why would Erandur want to take the Skull? But then, why did Daedra worshipers and cultists do anything? He knew next to nothing about this artifact- was it possible there was something Erandur wasn’t telling them? 

Vaermina paid him no mind. **“Quickly! Kill him now. Kill him and claim the Skull! You shall have power beyond your wildest imaginings!”** The tone sharpened and the volume of the voice intensified. The stones of the temple should be quaking. His head felt as if it would split. Before he knew what he was doing, he had taken a step forward, his hand drifting to his belt knife. What? No…

Some rational corner of his mind freed his tongue long enough for him to grit out “Madena. Help me. I can’t...” 

Half blind, he could barely see her face as she turned and took in his posture, the knife in his hand. Her eyes widened, and she took a step toward him, then pried the knife from his stiff fingers. He didn’t resist her.

In front of them, the shield winked out of existence. Erandur rose to his feet, then advanced forward toward the Skull where it stood, unguarded. This close, Rumarin could see the shaft of it was carved like a human spine, savage spikes radiating in all directions at the base of the horned eyeless skull, belonging to no animal or creature he had ever seen. At the sight of it, naked and unguarded and radiating power, a feral desire reared up inside him and he tensed, preparing to throw Madena away from him and lunge. **“Yes, good,”** the voice cooed. **“Give in.”**

He screwed his eyes shut, clenching his jaw. _No. “Madena,”_ he groaned. “Keep me away from him. She’s in my head. It hurts-” 

“Erandur,” he heard her wavering voice say. “Hurry.” Her grip tightened on his arm, digging into his burned flesh, and he cried out in agony. A moment later a thin trickle of warm golden Restoration magic flooded into him. He heard her hissing intake of breath. 

A sudden implosion- there was no other word for it- rocked the dais, bringing all three of them to their knees. A red flash scorched his eyes, even through closed lids. The air seemed sucked out of the room. All at once, the blinding pain vanished from his head, leaving a ringing empty space. The deep vibrating hum ceased abruptly, and he felt his lungs squeezed as if by a massive fist. Then, as quickly as it had gone, sensation came rushing back, along with blistering heat all across his torso; he sucked in a massive gulp of air and opened his eyes to see Erandur on his hands and knees before an empty dais. The room tilted and spun before his eyes, and then everything went black.

  
  
  



	13. In Vino Veritas

Awakening felt like swimming from the deepest depths toward the surface of a lake. His eyelids stuck together, and when he raised his hand to rub the sleep from his eyes, it felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. He could tell from the stiffness of movement that he had been lying in the same position for a long time. By feeling, there was a lumpy straw-filled mattress beneath him and woolen blankets above; when his eyes finally opened he saw that he was back in his room at the Windpeak Inn. 

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim light, and when he could see clearly he realized Blaise was sitting in the chair in the corner, writing in his notebook by the light of a lantern shuttered so that only a narrow beam of light leaked out across the pages. The beat of disorientation he felt upon seeing Blaise’s face instead of Erandur’s or Madena’s was startling enough that he sat up in bed, causing the blankets to fall away. The shock of cool air against his bare chest was how he realized he was naked, except for the thick white bandages wound around his left shoulder and upper arm. There was no pain, but he couldn’t say what condition his burned flesh might be in under the wrappings.

Blaise’s eyes jerked up at the motion, and he sat forward abruptly and dropped the notebook. “How are you feeling?” The sound of his deep voice filled Rumarin with a strange sensation of familiarity and relief. Hastily, he tugged the blanket back up to his shoulders and raked his tangled hair back out of his face, wondering when exactly his clothes had disappeared and where Blaise had been at that point in time. His first attempt at speech didn’t go so well; his throat felt tight from disuse. On the second try, he managed to get out, “I’m fine, I think? How did I get back here?” A second later, he added, “And where are Madena and Erandur?” 

“Here, drink this first. Madena told me to make sure you did as soon as you woke.” He got up out of the chair and crossed the small room to hand Rumarin a pewter cup half full of an unfamiliar liquid.

Rumarin sniffed the cup and couldn’t hold back a grimace at the very pungent, herbal aroma. He knocked it back in one gulp, trying not to breathe out of his nose in order to dull the flavor. The potion burned a hot trail all the way down his throat into his belly. He gasped, feeling a rush of tingling energy flood his extremities. As he sat there taking deep breaths, Blaise returned to his chair. 

“You’ve been asleep for the better part of a day,” he said. “The three of you caused quite a commotion coming back into town last night. The priest had you draped over his shoulders like you weighed nothing. It didn’t take long for word to spread through the city that the court wizard, a strange elf, and a Dunmer priest of Mara had cured the town of its nightmare scourge.” He raised an eyebrow at Rumarin. “Though from what the two of them tell me, _you’re_ the real hero.” 

He wracked his brain for the last things he remembered before blacking out. _Vaermina_ had been in his head. His hand drifted to his forehead, remembering the splitting pain. That was the only thing clear in his memory- everything after mounting the dais was hazy. Murky, uncomfortable memories of a strange war waged inside his own head: savage violence coiling within him like a snake poised to strike, the Skull beckoning; Madena prying a knife out of his hand. He shuddered. “Erandur destroyed the staff,” he said, testing out the phrase. He thought he remembered seeing the dais empty before hitting the floor. The last thing Blaise had said echoed– _you’re the real hero–_ and he jerked his head up, but there was no mocking in Blaise’s expression. His face was characteristically impassive, except that Rumarin thought he could see real concern in his eyes. He supposed he must look utterly pathetic. 

“Indeed,” said Blaise. “Madena said something about a Daedric artifact. She didn’t tell me any more than that, but whatever you did seems to have worked– no nightmares last night.” He didn’t ask any questions. Rumarin would have been burning with questions in his place. The concern was still there in his eyes- he was trying not to tax Rumarin. The thought made his heart squeeze a little.

“Where is Madena now?” he asked. He needed to talk to her, to confirm that there was no evil Daedric influence lurking in his head. He didn’t trust himself to see Erandur until he knew everything Madena knew. The thought made his insides squirm uncomfortably. Could he be dangerous? He didn’t feel dangerous, but he had seen too many impossible things recently to be willing to trust his own intuition.

Blaise got up out of the chair. “I’ll fetch her. She would be furious to know you had awakened and I didn’t tell her immediately.”

“Wait– the vampires,” Rumarin said. “You were hunting vampires...yesterday.” It felt strange to know that over a day had passed since the last time he had seen Blaise. “Did you find them?” 

A cold, satisfied smile. “We found them.”

After Blaise had gone, he lay back against the mattress, staring up at the rafters. _You’re the real hero._ Was this what heroes felt like? Full of uncertainty and guilt, plagued by awful memories? When he closed his eyes, he saw the serpentine curves of the statue of Vaermina, alive in the half-light; the stony determination in Veren’s dark face as he resigned himself to death in the Dreamstride; that same face contorted with the light of madness and then frozen in death as Rumarin’s knife cleaved his soul from his body. He had done what needed to be done, nothing more.

And yet, it was the first time in a long while that he had done something for reasons not related to his own self preservation or enrichment. It wasn’t necessarily that he meandered through life exclusively looking after his own advantage, or at least not any more than most other people, but still he felt a little like he had tried on someone else’s clothes and they didn’t fit quite right. It wasn’t a bad feeling. Maybe he wasn’t giving himself enough credit. He blew out an exasperated sigh.

Just then, the door opened to admit Madena. Her face relaxed into a smile when her eyes found him lying awake. Unfortunately, right behind her was Erandur.

Rumarin sat up straight. “I don’t know if it’s a good idea for Erandur to be here,” he said uneasily. At the same time, he was trying to monitor his own reaction, feeling for the weight of the unhinged presence that had so wanted Erandur’s blood. It was a strange thing to attempt, observing his own mind as if he weren’t living inside it. 

Erandur’s brow furrowed. His cowl was down, and shoulder-length dark hair curled around the points of his ears, looking damp as if it were freshly washed. “I’d… be happy to give you privacy.” He glanced uncertainly between Rumarin and Madena.

“No,” said Rumarin hastily, “no, it’s not that.” He glanced at Madena, and could see in her face that she knew exactly what he was getting at. “You didn’t tell him, did you?”

She shook her head. “It is yours to tell. Also, I don’t really understand what happened myself. You fainted immediately after the Skull was destroyed. I’m assuming you… feel better now?” 

He hesitated before answering. It seemed like all traces of the phantom hostility that had seized him in the temple was gone. He felt only a mix of curiosity and affection when his eyes fell on Erandur’s face, same as he had ever since he had decided to believe that the priest had nothing but good intentions. “When you were working on disabling the shield, I heard a voice. I’m certain it was Vaermina. She tried to influence me to… hurt you. She told me you were deceiving us, that you planned to take the Skull for yourself.” 

Erandur didn’t look surprised. “I had expected something like this might happen. She would not just stand idly by and watch the Skull be destroyed. You resisted, though, and that explains your condition.” He glanced at Madena. “This is why your attempts to heal the headache or to rouse him were unsuccessful. The pain was a result of his exerting extraordinary will against the Daedric influence- pushing back against a direct mind-to-mind link with Vaermina. It drained him so thoroughly that he had to sleep for a day to recover normal mental function.” 

“Again, you speak as if you have intimate knowledge of this… phenomenon,” said Madena, staring at Erandur. 

“Very few come to the service of one such as Vaermina totally willingly,” said Erandur grimly. “I had my share of headaches in the early years. Many had it worse than me; I was only a child when I was recruited.”

“You endured _that_ as a child?” asked Rumarin incredulously, then winced. Perhaps not the most delicate reference to Erandur’s past trauma. 

But the other elf only smiled a sad smile. “Everything I suffered put me on the path to where I am today, and the love of the Lady Mara. I can only hope that what we have done here, what you endured, will spare any child from suffering the same fate again.” His eyes were on Rumarin, but Rumarin’s eyes had strayed to Madena, who was still gazing at Erandur with a hollow expression. “The pain is temporary, and you should have no lasting ill effects. She has no reason to trifle with you again.”

Once more, the door to the room opened, this time admitting Blaise again. The sudden weight of his blue gaze made Rumarin acutely aware of his nakedness once more, and he hitched the blanket around his shoulders. The small room was getting cramped.

Blaise’s entrance seemed to jolt Madena out of whatever place she had gone to while watching Erandur with that troubled expression. “The pain is totally gone?” she asked, passing a critical eye over his face. “You look like your sleep was restful. Did you drink the potion I left?” 

“Don’t worry, my nursemaid did his job well,” said Rumarin. “I feel fine, in fact better than I have in days. All of you look much better rested as well. Does this mean Dawnstar’s nightmares are cured?” 

“No more nightmares,” affirmed Madena. “Even better, several of those who had been locked in an unconscious state awoke this morning. They are very weak, but otherwise physically unscarred.” Slight emphasis on ‘physically’. Rumarin shuddered, imagining being trapped in a nightmare realm with that… presence he had felt. 

“The whole town is preparing for quite the celebration tonight,” put in Erandur. “It’s a good thing you slept, because I suspect this inn is about to be the epicenter of the kind of party only Nords know how to throw.” 

“What time is it, anyway?” asked Rumarin. His internal clock provided zero clues. 

“Late afternoon,” said Blaise. “Can’t you smell dinner?”

Now that he was paying attention, he had to admit the aromas drifting through the inn were downright heavenly, although he might not be the best judge given that he apparently hadn’t eaten in more than a day. On cue, his stomach rumbled loudly. “Where are my clothes?” 

Madena looked apologetic. “Your robes were destroyed by the fire spell you took.”

Rumarin muttered a curse under his breath. He had a set of spare robes, but they were ordinary, not enchanted. At least they were warm. Perhaps it was a good thing– the counterfeit college robes had almost caused him more trouble than they had helped him avoid by this point. “I’ll have to come up with a new way to con people into thinking they should take me seriously.”

A deep, rumbling chuckle came from Erandur. “I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that after yesterday’s events, at least in Dawnstar. People seem to have attached all manner of dramatic import to our triumphant return.” His tone was sardonic. “I expect we actually looked more like a group of bedraggled refugees than conquering heroes, but that hasn’t stopped the rumors.”

Madena tsked, shaking her head. “Seren asked me just earlier what it was like to visit a plane of Oblivion and battle a Daedra. People certainly have wild imaginations.” 

“On the bright side, maybe people will be less afraid of allowing your magic to help them now,” Rumarin offered. During the sea voyage from Winterhold, Madena had lamented that Nord suspicion often kept her from serving the people of Dawnstar to the best of her abilities.

“I’m not so certain that any association with Daedra, even as someone who supposedly helped to defeat one, is going to help my case,” sighed Madena, rolling her eyes. “Selective reasoning is in ample supply around here.” 

“For tonight, my dear, I propose that you cease worrying about Dawnstar’s future problems and join the celebration for the one you just resolved,” Erandur suggested dryly, but his eyes twinkled. Madena shot him a look, but it had no teeth. Blaise caught Rumarin’s eye behind her back, and an amused smile flickered across his face. 

Madena turned back to Rumarin, all business again. “Keep those bandages on at least through the night. You healed up remarkably well, but I applied a poultice that will hopefully help minimize the scarring.” He lifted his arm experimentally and felt only the mild tug of new skin. 

“Am I going to look really badass when these come off?” he asked hopefully. He’d seen a variety of burn scars on seasoned mercenaries, and they could be either desperately ugly or very cool looking. 

Madena rolled her eyes. “If I’ve done my job as well as I think I have, you’ll have a nice memento but nothing too dramatic. Now come on, get dressed– you need to eat something.” 

“Ah, yes. I’ll certainly not turn down dinner and many drinks,” he said decisively. “Let the festivities begin.”

***

Light spilled from the open door of the inn as people thronged the porch and even the surrounding snow, some of them in nothing but shirtsleeves. Dawnstar was out in force to celebrate the first good night of sleep in recent memory, and it seemed like every last citizen had turned out to eat, drink, and dance away the troubles of the past few weeks. There was no trace of the storm that had been blowing fiercely the last time he had been outdoors, but the town sparkled with fresh ice and snow in the torchlight.

The innkeeper, Thoring, had built up a large cookpit beside the inn, and the aroma of sizzling elk venison permeated the air. He had also carted several casks of Honningbrew out from the cellar to raucous cries of approval from the crowd. _Nords,_ thought Rumarin fondly, watching a burly redheaded man roar with laughter and swing a young slip of a girl into his chest, lifting her by the waist and twirling her around. She shrieked, laughing, mead slopping over the side of the tankard gripped tightly in her hand. 

He was leaning against the front railing of the inn between Madena and Erandur, from which position he had an excellent view of all the festivities while also being close enough to the cookfire to feel pleasantly warm despite the chill night air. A pretty young bard who he had recently learned was Thoring’s daughter Karita was playing a lively tune on a flute, accompanied by a rhythmic drumbeat being played with intense focus by a comically grave-looking youth. From the glances he kept stealing at Karita, it was obvious that for him at least, this performance was purely transactional. Rumarin grinned– from what he’d seen of Karita, it would take a lot more than a passable supporting percussion gig to impress her.

Blaise was standing in the street nearby, surrounded by several guards identifiable only by the insignia on their cloaks, armor and weapons nowhere to be seen. From what Rumarin could surmise, the guard squad was gleefully rehashing yesterday’s raid on the vampire den, complete with exaggerated reenactments. Blaise’s cloak was thrown back, and underneath it he was clad in only his linen shirt and dark trousers. As he listened to one of the guards make what appeared to be a rather emphatic point based on the gesturing, he raked one hand through his dark hair and tipped back his mug of ale. Rumarin’s eyes traced his profile as he drank, admiring the strong line of his jaw and the way the shadows pooled in the hollow at the base of his throat. Abruptly he realized he was staring, and hastily turned aside to find Erandur graciously accepting another drink from a matronly Nord grandmother. The woman looked positively awed by him. She was blushing!

“Maybe I’m jaded, or maybe I don’t give people enough credit– okay definitely both– but somehow I wasn’t expecting such a warm reception for two elves and a mage in a thoroughly Stormcloak town, even if we did do them a service,” Rumarin remarked to Madena, who was also watching Erandur bend his head to converse with the woman. 

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned as a resident of said Stormcloak town, it’s that politics, however polarizing, are largely irrelevant to everyday life for these people,” said Madena, shrugging. “Most of them are fishermen, and both Imperial and Stormcloak armies have to eat. You must have noticed the same. The Nords are a stubborn, idealistic people, but they are practical at heart.” 

Rumarin mulled it over. “No offense, but I stick out a bit more than you do. You don’t have racial ties to a certain organization of megalomaniacs. Even ‘practicality’ can be overruled by other… preconceptions.”

“I take it you’re no fan of the Thalmor.” He glanced at her sharply, the familiar stab of indignant anger sparking, but he found a small smile playing around the corners of her mouth. _Don’t be so sensitive,_ the small sheepish voice in his head admonished.

“On the contrary. They’re tall, punctual, and have excellent posture.” He kept his voice utterly flat, so that there could be no misinterpretation, then took a deep swig of mead. He used to hate mead, but one couldn’t live in the mead capital of Tamriel and not develop at least somewhat of a taste for it. Honningbrew, of course; Black-Briar mead was positively noxious. 

Madena actually laughed out loud, a surprisingly beautiful bell-like sound, then turned solemn. “I didn’t mean anything by it.” Apparently he hadn’t schooled his face as well as he thought he had. Erandur turned back to the two of them then, a smile creasing his face. “And what conversation have I been missing out on?” 

Rumarin swirled his mead. “We’ve been debating the merits of your various admirers.” He waggled his eyebrows.

Now it was Erandur’s turn to look flummoxed. Rumarin grinned, enjoying the expression on his face. The half-light from the open inn door and scattered torches accented his angular features. Madena cut in, a little too quickly. “Actually, Rumarin had pointed out that it’s refreshing to celebrate something that transcends political lines, in the middle of such grim times for Skyrim.” 

“That’s not what I said,” muttered Rumarin. 

“Perhaps my word choice was clumsy. It does feel a bit crass to boil down the current situation in Skyrim to ‘politics’,” sighed Madena, face sobering. “There’s politics, and then there’s war. Far too many people have already died senseless deaths.”

Erandur turned around to lean his back against the railing. “Violent actions follow violent beliefs. Nationalism is a powerful force. And that’s not to say the Empire hasn’t perpetuated more than its fair share of violence itself over the decades– far from it. But in the end, the price is paid in the blood of innocents.” 

Rumarin looked at Madena. “What was it you just said? Politics are ‘largely irrelevant to everyday life’?” He preferred not to spend a lot of time thinking about Nordic nationalism and how his life might change if the Stormcloaks won this conflict. He took a deep drink of mead. His head was starting to feel pleasantly fuzzy.

Madena frowned at him. “What I meant was that Skyrim’s peace is already too far gone for the everyday prejudices of some of her people to have much influence in the outcome of this war, at least not before a great many more people lose their lives. This war was brewing long before Ulfric Stormcloak shed Torygg’s blood.”

Erandur folded his arms, propping his cup in the crook of his elbow. “This war is not unique in that way. War is what happens when society fails– when thought leaders fail to rationalize their differences, it’s the bloody reckoning. It’s senseless, really. Barbaric. Physical might as a stand-in for ideological superiority.”

Madena’s face was looking a little pale. She looked down, staring into her winecup. “Sometimes I wonder how the Divines can look down upon their progeny making such a mess of things and not utterly despair of us.” 

“All those with free will can be led astray,” said Erandur softly, “but that doesn’t mean free will is not a gift to be cherished.” His face was intent but gentle as he gazed at Madena. “I believe all people are inherently good. Sometimes misguided, true, but all are children of Mara and She blesses us all with her love.”

Rumarin turned away, suddenly feeling annoyingly emotional. It had to be the mead. His eyes found Blaise in the crowd again, still standing on the fringe of the same group of guardsmen. But he didn’t look to be paying attention to their conversation, and was instead staring into the small fire blazing merrily nearby in a deep copper bowl someone had set up in the middle of the street.

As the sounds of merriment washed over him, his thoughts turned inward. Madena and Erandur were both so driven by conviction, determined to right what they saw as the wrongs they had wrought upon the world. And Blaise was utterly consumed by his vengeance. Meanwhile, Rumarin struggled to summon such a depth of conviction about anything at all. Since Otero’s death, it was like all the color in his life had faded to shades of gray. Was that really what this all had been about– proving to himself that he was more than just a breeze passing through? 

The next time he looked up out of his cup, Blaise was staring straight at him. He wondered what the expression on his face had been. A moment later, the Breton was politely excusing himself and shouldering his way toward the porch where Rumarin stood. As Blaise climbed the steps, Rumarin’s eyes wistfully traced the faint flush coloring his cheeks, the brightness of his blue eyes. He was _so_ beautiful. And that was _definitely_ the mead talking. 

“You look far too morose for a victorious hero who just rid the town of a Daedric threat,” said Blaise, settling in beside him to lean over the railing. “It’s scaring off your admirers.” He tilted his head discreetly at a gaggle of young women who were huddled nearby, tittering. As Rumarin looked, one of them stole a glance at him, then flushed and hurriedly buried her face in her mug. 

“Are you sure they’re not looking at you?” returned Rumarin, raising an eyebrow. His nerves were singing at the nearness of Blaise, all of his melancholy from a few moments ago forgotten. “The sexy vampire hunter, not even a full day in town and already rid Dawnstar of its undead menace?” Okay, maybe calling Blaise 'sexy' had been a bridge too far, even for him. He changed the subject quickly. “How many were there anyway?” 

Was it just him, or was Blaise trying not to smile? There was certainly a little color in his face– maybe he was just feeling all the drinks. “Only three. There were four coffins in the cave, so it’s fair to assume that’s all of them, including the first one. Two of three were fledglings, like her, but the ringleader was powerful. He enthralled one of the guards and I almost had to kill him.” Blaise tsked. His voice became more thoughtful. “They all looked the same as the one in town, with that same facial structure.” 

“You mean the...” Rumarin gestured to his forehead, scrunching up his nose and eyebrows. 

Blaise barked a short laugh at the impression, which sent a cool shot of relief through Rumarin. “The same. I want to discuss this with Falion- perhaps it’s a clue to the bloodline structure Thorvar mentioned.” 

“More evidence for the twisted vampire family tree,” said Rumarin, making a face. 

At the word ‘vampire’, Madena turned around. “Oh- I forgot about that. Somehow it never came up in the several days we spent together that you’re a vampire hunter?” She raised an eyebrow. Rumarin saw with amusement that he wasn’t the only one feeling the effects of the free-flowing beverages. “I was surprised to see you again so soon when you arrived at the White Hall that first night after killing the first one, but clearly you meant business.” 

“Bad weather makes me stir crazy,” said Blaise blandly. 

“Nah, he was just trying to upstage me,” said Rumarin, feeling saucy. “In fact, I would have utterly pulverized that first one myself if he hadn’t butted in to steal all the glory.” 

Blaise gave him that same signature flat look he was growing to both love and loathe and opened his mouth to reply, but Rumarin jabbed a finger at him. “No- save it, I can tell you’re about to say something all grave and noble about how ‘it’s not about glory, it’s about cleansing the world of predators to protect the innocent’ or some sanctimonious rubbish-” 

He cut off when Blaise nonchalantly made an obscene hand gesture. A beat later, an uproarious laugh burst out of him, melding with Madena’s tinkling chuckle. It felt so good to laugh. “There is no way you learned that in Breton high society...”

***

Several hours later, he found himself drifting in a warm, contented haze. The air in the inn was toasty, thick with the smells of pipe smoke, ale, and roasted meat. He was seated in a deep chair next to the long central fire trough, feet propped up on the edge of the hearth. Next to him and opposite, Blaise lounged in an identical chair with his back to the fire. Dawnstar’s citizens thronged the room, chattering loudly and bellowing with laughter. Karita and her eager admirer had long since moved inside, which meant that including the other guy who had been strumming his lute in the longhall all evening, there were now two performances happening on opposite sides of the room, playing completely different songs. Normally he would have been incredibly offended by this, but somehow he couldn’t summon any outrage. 

For some reason, there were two cups of mead perched on the arm of his chair. He peered into each one suspiciously, chose the one with more mead in it, then turned to Blaise. “As entertaining as it is to make fun of Nords, they sure knew how to party.” 

“The locals aren’t the only ones having a good night,” he responded, gesturing with his cup. Rumarin turned to look, and a broad smile split his face. Erandur held Madena gently in his arms and they were slowly turning in place, oblivious to the rest of the crowd dancing merrily around the nearest bard. The tune was a jaunty and salacious song about a bold pirate wench. As he watched, Madena leaned in and said something that drew a chuckle out of Erandur.

Rumarin sighed contentedly. “I was wondering when they were going to get around to it.” In a distant, less fuzzy part of his brain, he was aware he was giving his dubious foresight too much credit, but in his current state, logical thoughts seemed to slide off him like water off of a freshly waxed breastplate. 

“Good for them,” said Blaise. He peered into his winecup contentedly, swirling it. 

“Had enough ale for the night?” asked Rumarin, wondering when he had traded out his mug for wine.

“You wouldn’t have been able to tell if I asked for wine or old pipe water by the face the barkeep made.” Perfect deadpan. Rumarin envied that ability- it had such comedic potential. If only Blaise ever cracked jokes. 

“That’s because every Nord knows all true heroes drink mead,” said Rumarin matter-of-factly. “You’re messing with their image of you. The river of mead through the Halls of Sovngarde and all that.” 

“That is definitely not a real thing,” said Blaise. 

“Well then I definitely don’t want to go there,” said Rumarin decisively. The lutenist had switched to a more stately tune that sounded more suited for a courtly dance than a rowdy tavern. He nodded along, conducting gravely with his tankard. 

“Seeing as it’s the Nordic afterlife, I’m not so sure you’d be invited anyway,” said Blaise, raising an eyebrow, “but I’d bet any Nord would agree you proved your mettle yesterday, so maybe they’ll at least permit you to drop in from Aetherius for the occasional drinking contest.”

Just then, a gangly youth with his hair in a long blond plait stumbled into Blaise’s chair, landing almost on top of him and knocking his cup askew. A blink later, Blaise had a face full of red wine and a lap full of drunk teenager. 

Rumarin couldn’t help himself, the look on Blaise’s face was so genuinely startled. He started to giggle helplessly as the kid flailed. The giggles had intensified into full-blown laughter by the time Blaise managed to heave the kid to his feet. The skinny youth looked mortified in a very drunk sort of way as he scuttled away, still wobbly on his feet. Blaise tugged on the neck of his shirt, ruefully surveying the dark wine stain. 

“‘Drop in’ from Aetherius, you said?” Rumarin wiped away a tear. Blaise was glaring at him, but he didn’t care. “Sorry, but I couldn’t have orchestrated that any better myself. I had to.” He took a drink of mead, but then a fresh wave of mirth hit him at Blaise’s expression and he spluttered, snorting mead up his nose and then going briefly cross-eyed at the pain. 

That did it– the cross expression melted off Blaise’s face and he threw his head back and laughed. It was a deep, rich sound. Rumarin was so startled by the warmth of it that his coughing fit subsided, instantly suffused by a strange tingling feeling. As he watched Blaise’s broad shoulders shaking, his teeth flashing, Rumarin felt a prickle of adrenaline and desire run down his spine. It was like looking at a different person. 

Blaise scrubbed a hand over his face and flung droplets of wine hissing into the fire, still chuckling. He raised his eyes to Rumarin, and they were crinkled with mirth and actually sparkling- _sparkling?_ what was _wrong_ with him- and raised his winecup in a sort of salute before taking a drink of whatever was left. “Maybe I deserved that,” he said shaking his head, and scrubbed his forearm across his mouth. 

There was a splash of wine still clinging to his cheekbone. Blaise had such beautiful lips, Rumarin thought fuzzily. His top lip dipped and curved generously like the wings of a bird in flight. Rumarin scooted forward in his chair and reached out to gently flick the droplet away with his thumb, which brought his face within inches of Blaise’s. Later, he would think back and be unable to identify any conscious thought that led to what happened next, but somehow his hand cupped Blaise’s jaw, and then Rumarin was kissing him full-on. 

He smelled of woodsmoke, the salt of the sea, the musk of long days on the road. Rumarin was so drunk on the combination of mead and the unexpected softness of Blaise’s lips that it took his brain a second to catch up with his body. Before he could panic at what he had done and come up with an escape plan, he realized with shock that Blaise was kissing him back. In a daze, he felt Blaise’s hand come up and grip the base of his skull to pull him in closer. Deft fingers wove through the hair where it was gathered at the nape of his neck, and a tiny sound slipped out of Rumarin unbidden as his lips parted under the gentle press of Blaise’s tongue. 

He tasted of wine. Even given all the time he had spent staring at Blaise’s mouth, he could never have anticipated how euphoric this would feel. He seized a fistful of Blaise’s wine-soaked shirt to pull him closer, then slid his hand inside the collar out of an urgent desire to touch his skin, trailed his fingers along the taut ridge between his neck and shoulder and felt Blaise shudder. Rumarin’s eyes had drifted closed, he couldn’t have said which way was up… Abruptly, there was cold air where Blaise’s lips had been. His eyes snapped open. 

Blaise had pulled back and was staring at him bemusedly. Rumarin cleared his throat and snatched his hand back from where it was still buried in his collar. The other man raised his own hand dazedly to where Rumarin’s had been, still staring at him with that unreadable look in his eyes. 

“I… have no idea where that came from,” said Rumarin, and his voice came out husky and _definitely_ sounded as if he had just surfaced from being kissed senseless. It was both true and very false, because he had wanted to do that almost since the minute he had laid eyes on Blaise in that old Nordic ruin a few weeks ago. He grabbed his cup and took a massive gulp of mead, primarily to shield his face, which he was certain was burning, but also to buy time on what to say next. Also, he was incredibly thirsty all of a sudden. 

Blaise swallowed thickly. “You and me both,” he said finally. Rumarin watched the loveliest pink flush creep across his cheekbones. “No offense, but even before I was married, I never… I just didn’t expect...” 

Rumarin’s eyebrows climbed. Blaise fumbling over his words… he had to be _at least_ as flustered as Rumarin felt. _Nothing_ fazed the guy, and here he was blushing like a maiden. 

“Either you’ve never kissed a man before, or you just didn’t expect to like kissing me so much,” Rumarin finished, a sly smile spreading across his face. Or both. He didn’t care. Elation was coursing through him, fueled by the alcohol in his blood. A second later, he had to dodge a piece of bread Blaise had lobbed at him. 

“Quit congratulating yourself,” grumbled Blaise. He rubbed his temples and stared at the floor, still quite red in the face, then rested his forehead on his hand. “That extra round was a bad idea,” came the muffled comment. 

Rumarin was reasonably certain that only a very small portion of it had been the booze. If booze was all it took to create a kiss like _that,_ then Skyrim would have a much bigger drinking problem than it already did. But as the adrenaline of what had just happened started to wear off, he noticed the room was rocking to and fro slightly. Later he would marvel at his capacity for rational thought, but he concluded it was best he get Blaise out of his sight before he embarrassed himself. He also was too drunk and still too aroused to be willing to indulge Blaise’s morose retrospection- there was no way he was letting anything ruin this memory. 

“I will not stop congratulating myself. And now I’m going to dump a whole basin of cold water over my head and go to bed,” he slurred, steadying himself with a hand on the arm of his chair as he stood up. A dramatic exit was definitely the way to go.

He gave a shaky, minuscule bow before weaving and dodging his way toward the door of his room, but couldn’t resist a last glance over his shoulder as the door was shutting. Blaise’s head was still resting on his hands and he was staring into the fire.


	14. Leave-taking

Rumarin woke to a parched throat and a head that felt stuffed full of sand. He groaned, grasping around on the nightstand for the water pitcher. Mid-gulp, the memory of what had happened last night came flooding back to him and he choked, dribbling water down his front. 

Panic, exhilaration, and hope warred savagely within him as he trawled his memory for details of the kiss and Blaise’s reaction to it. The specifics were unfortunately hazy, but there was no questioning that it had been _hot_. Was it wishful thinking that Blaise had seemed just as flustered, in a good way? But, no, he had as good as admitted out loud that he had thoroughly enjoyed it and didn’t quite know what to make of that. 

Rumarin flopped back against the mattress. The idea of walking out the door of this rented bedroom felt like stepping outside a safe haven into wild, unexplored territory. He was tempted to stay inside as long as he could to preserve this realm of infinite possibilities, a potential world where that kiss had ignited something that could no longer be contained.

A loud growl from his stomach interrupted his fretting. That, along with his mounting nerves, tipped the scale. He was going to be too fidgety to hide in his room all morning. Better to just get this over with. He heaved himself up and laced up his boots, grimacing at the dull ache that settled behind his eyes as he stood up. Come to think of it, he hadn’t really eaten much last night. Definitely a contributing factor to how awful he currently felt. 

He raked his fingers through his hair and tied it back. The motion made him suddenly conscious of the bandages still wrapped around his torso. He shrugged out of his robes and unwound the wrappings to find whole, new skin. A swathe stretching from his collarbone over the curve of his shoulder was streaked with whorls of dark bronze, standing out against the smooth gold skin of his chest. He traced the scars with his fingertips, finding the skin there to be slightly raised. Madena had been right— he had made it out with barely a mark, compared to what could have happened. Rinsing the remnants of the herbal-smelling poultice off and splashing cold water on his face triggered a drunken memory of putting his entire head in the basin the night before in an effort to cool off, which had not been very successful, and jolted him right back to fretting. What a _kiss_. 

He heaved a sigh and paused after scrubbing an arm across his damp face to consider his strategy. Truth be told, he’d stumbled upon an extremely effective way to actually force a decision about where to go next. The best thing would be to let Blaise take the lead. Rumarin wouldn’t deny what had happened, but he would let Blaise bring it up first. It seemed the most appropriate response, given that Rumarin had started this whole thing, and also conveniently absolved him of the responsibility of mentioning how he’d essentially thrown himself at Blaise in a fit of uncontrollable drunken lust. His face heated for a second at that thought and he had to splash more cold water on his neck before finally shrugging back into his robes and pushing open the door. 

It turned out that his mental preparation had been overkill, for the hall was mostly empty and Blaise was nowhere to be seen. The door to his room was closed. It appeared to be late morning— clearly Rumarin had slept well past dawn. A few morose-looking patrons picked at plates of food, all of them looking worse for the wear. A faint, sour smell of ale still hung in the air, though the floor had been swept and other evidence of the night’s revelries was nowhere to be seen. Rumarin sauntered up to the bar and ordered breakfast from Thoring, whose eyes were just as red-rimmed as everyone else’s. 

He forced down a bowl of flavorless oats, a piece of sausage, and two large tankards of water. By the time he had finished, there was still no sign of Blaise. Thoring was eyeing him across the bar. “If you’re looking for that quiet friend of yours, he’s out back.” Rumarin looked up sharply at the way he said ‘friend’, but there was nothing on his face other than a hangover. _Of course there isn’t, he was drunk as a skunk last night just like everyone else,_ Rumarin told himself. The headache was getting to him. 

The bright light outside was painful. He clutched his cloak about his shoulders, breathing out steam into the frigid air. Mercifully, the cold shock seemed to clear his head somewhat as he stumped down the steps and around the side of the inn. The innkeeper had said Blaise was “out back”. 

It didn’t take long to find him. The swish of a blade cutting the air and boots scuffing in crusty snow were easy to follow. He had stripped off his bearskin cloak and hung it on a tree branch. Rumarin shivered just to think of it; the air was like a knife against his cheeks. He didn’t call out, but leaned back against the back wall of the inn to watch. 

Blaise’s motions as he worked the sword were precise and unhurried. He put Rumarin in mind of a sabre cat, all flowing stances and lethal grace, but still with that taut-bowstring promise of barely-contained violence. The snow beneath his feet was churned to slush, but he never slipped. 

Somehow he knew Blaise had seen him, even though he never acknowledged Rumarin’s presence. Finally, though, he came to rest, breathing hard, and sheathed his sword in a single fluid motion. Only then did he raise his eyes to meet Rumarin’s and nod cordially, face expressionless. Rumarin could pick out the faintest color staining his cheekbones. _Oh, boy_. 

He cast about for something to say. “You look like you’re not feeling too much worse for the wear.” _Lame._

“I’ve always found that exercise clears the head,” replied Blaise, swinging his cloak around his shoulders. Rumarin found himself picking apart his intonation. Typical, how each of them seemed determined to act supremely casual, but at the same time he found himself unable to reach across the divide. He felt awkward in a way he hadn’t since adolescence.

Blaise was the one to break the silence that had lapsed between them. “I need to stop by the White Hall again before leaving town for Morthal— there was a sizable bounty for those vampires.” 

It hit him like a slap. Just like that, the phantom weight of the letter in his pocket returned like a physical presence. His stomach twisted at the thought of parting ways with Blaise without at least talking about the kiss- at the thought of parting ways at all. 

He realized he had been quiet for a moment, and Blaise was looking at him closely, blue eyes drilling into his own. Sudden indignation rose in him. This felt like a test, and he didn’t like it. “What do you want me to say? Am I supposed to thank you for the pleasure of your company and take off for Solitude without another word?” 

Blaise sighed, some of the intensity draining away. This was it, the future of… whatever this was balanced on the head of a pin. “I have my burden to carry, and you have yours. It was never my intention to drag you along with me. But you know what I’m doing here, and I can’t stray from that path until I’ve done what I came to do.”

There was plenty to unpack in that statement, but by now Rumarin was too fired up for tact. He dropped his voice to a hiss, shoving down his wounded pride. “’Drag me along’? At every juncture since Windhelm, you _asked_ if I wanted to accompany you. You told me about your life, and asked me about mine. In some parts of Tamriel, that’s called ‘friendship’.”

“And in those parts of Tamriel, do friends put their tongues in each other’s mouths too?” 

There it was. Rumarin stopped dead, a butterfly caught in a spider’s web. He gazed at Blaise, trying to gauge the other man’s expression. It was bland, his head slightly tilted to the side, but his eyes weren’t cold. He just looked as if he were waiting to hear what Rumarin would say. 

_You kissed me back, so you tell me?_ No. Carefully. He took a deep breath and let it out through his nose, making sure his voice would be utterly calm before speaking. “I can’t speak for all of Tamriel, obviously, but at least here in Skyrim, friendship can mean whatever the participants want it to mean. The only requirement is that the potential friends are _honest_ with each other.” He forced down a twinge of guilty hypocrisy. He wasn’t too delusional to admit that they were in this situation at least partially because he had been lusting after Blaise for weeks but too stubborn to acknowledge it. Still, he couldn’t resist adding pointedly, “Plus, you kissed me back.” 

Blaise stroked the stubble on his chin absently, gazing at him. A chill breeze blew through the clearing, sweeping a tinkling stream of ice crystals into the air between them. Rumarin felt as if he were balanced on a wire, nerves singing, his headache all but forgotten. After a tense moment, Blaise’s face relaxed as he sighed heavily, rubbing his eyelids with thumb and forefinger. “All I know is I’ve been away from home and so single-minded for so long that I hardly remember what it’s like to _have_ a friend, much less _be_ one. These past few weeks have been some of the best since I came to this country, and I have you to thank for that.” 

He paused as if searching for words. Rumarin’s heart had started pounding in his chest. When Blaise’s eyes rose again to meet Rumarin’s, they were softer. “You have your own path to follow— you must be anxious to meet your friends in Solitude. But I hope it’s obvious that I would count myself fortunate to continue to be graced by your company on my journey, for as long as you might want to join me.” 

Rumarin had to brace his back against the wall to keep from sagging with relief, but what he actually said was “I think ‘obvious’ gives you way too much credit, but I’ll take it. Though, ‘graced by my company’… I’ll remember that the next time you’re doing that thing where you want to tell me to shut up but you’re too well-bred, so you just look constipated.”

He wasn’t imagining it— Blaise’s shoulders dipped ever so slightly as he chuckled. He was relieved too. “As for Solitude, Silas has already been waiting for months, he can wait a little longer,” continued Rumarin, relief still coursing through him. Only then did he realize the decision to stick around following Blaise had crept in silently while he was waiting to see what would happen. He hadn’t lost him. 

Blaise half-smiled, looking cheered. “I’m glad to hear it. But, Rumarin?” Rumarin winced inwardly, even as a little thrill went through him at hearing his own name on Blaise’s lips. Back to the hard stuff. “Like I said, I know that I’m… obsessive. I don’t have room for anything else right now. So maybe it’s better if we… keep things platonic.” 

Rumarin resisted the urge to add “—for now”, remembering the spark that had surged between them the night before, and instead raised his hands in mock surrender. This was a time to take what he could get. He carefully schooled his voice to nonchalance. “I won’t assault your virtue again, don’t worry.” _You’re the best thing that has happened to me in months, maybe years, and I’ll do anything to keep from driving you away._ “But, just so you know, the door is always open in case you change your mind.” There, he had said it. The torch had firmly been passed. 

Blaise nodded in acknowledgment, that same faint tinge of pink creeping across his cheeks. A hardened vampire hunter who blushed like a maiden. Rumarin shook his head and sighed. This was going to be interesting.

***

Rumarin stood by the fire in the center of the White Hall, warming his hands and watching the motes of dust and smoke sparkle in the updraft. Blaise was discussing payment with Jod in the side room. They had spent the morning provisioning for their journey, and the hour of their departure from Dawnstar was finally upon them. He had spent some time considering what to do about his ruined “mage” robes, finally conceding that it might be time to for him to get some proper armor. He would be more exposed than usual on the trek to Morthal without even the meager protection of the robes’ enchantments. Properly fitted armor took time to make, though, so he would have to make do until arriving in Morthal. 

He sensed rather than saw Skald emerging from his chambers on the west side of the hall. The distinct sensation of being studied appraisingly washed over him, but he kept his face blank and his posture relaxed. When Skald spoke, his voice was thoughtful. “My court wizard tells me you did Dawnstar a great service, Elf.”

Rumarin bristled the way he always did when Nords addressed him that way, but only raised his eyes to Skald’s, trying to keep the challenge out of his face. This ornery Nord happened to be a jarl, he reminded himself. “I did what any decent citizen of Skyrim would have done in the face of such a threat.”

“A decent citizen of Skyrim,” Skald repeated, turning and striding toward his throne, stroking his short beard. His eyes narrowed, weighing and measuring, as he settled into his seat. When he spoke, it was to say “Modesty in a goldskin- that’s something you don’t often see.” 

Rumarin ground his teeth, but stayed silent. Skald continued. “Whatever your story, never let it be said that I allow aid to my hold to go unrewarded. I have given Madena leave to gift you a sum from my coffers, in recompense for your service to the city.” 

He had been planning to mention the issue of payment to Madena anyway, but it was still gratifying to be acknowledged. “Thank you, Jarl.” This might offset the cost of the armor he had just been contemplating. 

Skald waved a hand toward the upstairs balcony to his right. “I believe she is in her quarters.”

He climbed the stairs to the balcony. Nearing the closed door at the top, he could hear muffled voices in conversation inside. Apparently, Madena had company. He raised his hand and rapped twice, and the voices cut off. “Yes?” called Madena from within.

“It’s Rumarin,” he said, not too loudly, conscious of Skald lounging in his throne below. Footsteps, and then the door opened to reveal Madena, looking pleasantly disheveled in a loosely-belted robe. Her feet were bare— she clearly hadn’t left the room today, but there was no sign of a hangover on her relaxed face. Her cheeks were slightly flushed and her shoulder-length brown hair cascaded loose around her ears. Rumarin’s eyebrows climbed. He peered into the room over her head, and sure enough, his eyes met Erandur’s where the Dunmer priest was lounging in a chair in front of a small table spread with the remnants of a meal. Coming from him, the wink Erandur gave him was downright lewd. 

A mischievous grin crept across Rumarin’s face. Madena huffed and grabbed his sleeve, dragging him into the room. “Oh, for goodness’ sake.” 

Inside, the room was tidy and cozy, just what he would have expected of Madena. There was a sprig of fresh snowberry in a ceramic vase on the bedside table, and a small shelf held a collection of arcane-looking volumes. A woven rug in muted colors stretched from one wall to the other, Erandur’s long legs extending into the center of its circular pattern from where he sat. 

“Blessings of Mara, my son,” said Erandur pleasantly. One corner of his mouth tweaked upward. 

“Blessings of Mara indeed,” said Rumarin, still grinning, as Madena crossed the room on her bare feet to rummage in a drawer in the bedside table. She returned quickly and dropped a heavy, clinking pouch in his hand. 

“Gift from Skald,” she said, smiling. Catching sight of the roguish look still on his face, she dropped her chin, half-glaring up at him through her eyelashes. “I wouldn’t say a word if I were you.” One eyebrow rose suggestively. 

Rumarin felt heat flare in his cheeks. Erandur started to chuckle, folding his hands across his middle. “It’s… complicated,” he muttered. 

Madena smirked at him, then patted his cheek. “I’m sure you will figure it out.” Easy for her to say.

Changing the subject suddenly seemed very attractive. He looked over at Erandur. “What will you do now that things are back to normal?”

His eyes shifted to Madena, who met his gaze. Erandur shrugged one shoulder and smiled, then gestured as if to say ‘you tell him’. She turned back to Rumarin. “I petitioned Skald to allow the tower to be turned into a proper temple to Mara, and a place to offer healing and convalescence.”

“It seems only fitting that a place which was once a military fort, then a temple to a malignant deity, should now atone for its violent history and become a beacon of peace,” said Erandur. 

“I suppose this means you’re staying in Dawnstar, then?” asked Rumarin. The idea of that creepy old tower being transformed into a sanctuary filled him with surprisingly intense emotion. It was rare enough in this harsh country to be able to hope for, much less achieve, such a happy ending. 

“I suppose so,” Erandur said, and though Madena’s face betrayed only a small, contented smile, Rumarin could feel the happiness and hope radiating off of her in waves. 

Just then, the sound of Blaise’s voice drifted up from the hall outside. “Go and get him,” said Madena. “I’m assuming the two of you are leaving? I’m glad you came by to say goodbye.”

Blaise ended up leaning against the doorway while Rumarin embraced Madena and then Erandur. It was a harder farewell than he would have expected, given that he’d barely known Erandur three days and Madena less than a week. She made him promise to write, and then Blaise clasped hands with each of them in turn. As Rumarin turned to follow his companion down the stairs, Madena stalled him with a hand on his arm. “If you ever want to learn more magic, you know where to find me,” she said softly. “I think you are remarkable, Rumarin. I’m glad to have met you.”

He was surprised to feel the slightest lump in his throat as he gazed down at her. He pulled her into another hug, resting his chin atop her head. “Take care of each other,” he whispered.


End file.
